Damning the Damned
by Lou P.F
Summary: When Voldemort tries to kill Harry as an infant, the curse... it messes up. Harry and Voldemort end up with a soulbond that doesn't complete itself before fourth year. Mix this in with past lives, potion Masters being a pain, the Ministry not Understanding Anything and a budding romance between Harry and Voldemort... well, Harry's fifth year will certainly be interesting.
1. Chapter 1 (prologue)

It's October 31st, 1981. Lord Voldemort enters a protected home in Godric's Hollow and murders a mother and a father. He point his wand to a young baby's forehead, smiling coldly at the toddler, before he utters the Killing Curse.

His intentions are for it to kill the boy. The boy's mother had planned for her sacrifice to protect him.

Neither of those things happen, as magic works in strange ways.

The curse takes hold of their souls, tearing off a small piece of each and replacing it with the other's.

And that's the story of how Lord Voldemort bound himself to a young boy barely aged one.

Harry Potter grows up with the Dursleys treating him like a slave.

*  
Harry Potter receives his Hogwarts letter at 11, and it's handed to him by a big man with a big heart.

Harry Potter befriends a soft boy on the Hogwarts Express, somehow making space for him in a group that doesn't even exist yet.

Throughout his first year at Hogwarts Harry learns to love, to accept, to befriend, and to trust. He doesn't realize it then, but that matters far more than than the other things he learns.

At the end of the year, Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom face the Dark Lord plastered to the back of their Professor's head, and when the Boy-Who-Lived locks eyes with Lord Voldemort, sparks fly through the air.

Harry doesn't make a move before Neville yells at him to do something, and later he has regrets. He hates himself for it, but there was _something_ about Voldemort that set his hairs on end.

During his second year, Harry faces a basilisk, saves a person's life, and stabs a diary.

During his third year, Harry gets a new godfather, loses him, gets him anew, and then loses him once more.

During his fourth year, things start to become interesting. Harry does his best to survive, outflies a dragon, swims to the bottom of a bottomless lake, and races against witches and wizards far older than him – but he fails at what most would say is the most important.

He cannot control his own instincts.

When Cedric Diggory and he is portkeyed to the graveyard, Cedric is killed. When Harry then is met by Voldemort in his broken and shattered body, he is hit by such a powerful wave of protectiveness, anger, guilt, need and utter, complete _hopelessness_ that he falls to his knees and proclaims he'll do anything to help.

On his mind is a hundred thoughts, most of them screaming at him in shock, but he is not in full control of his actions, and through the daze that has become his mind he only knows that this creature is important and it is in _pain_.

And so there are some last-minute alterations to the ritual. It has some unpleasant side-effects, like Voldemort's Horcruxes being destroyed and his and Harry's bond completing itself, but none of them realize that right then and there.

When Harry is sent back to the Quidditch Pitch, he's screaming, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The school year ends with a bang.

 **a/n: to all the peeps saying it's rushed YEAH NO SHIT,** dchu **think** i **have the time to write out a full 11 years of something the books and movies** ,,, **you know** ,,,, **cOVER? look genius if you don't** got **anything better to do than** comment **"rushed" or "bruh what" then maybe... don't comment. and read the next chapter? get a life yo**


	2. Chapter 2

A traitor.

That's what Harry sees when he looks in the mirror.

A dirty, treacherous, back-stabbing traitor.

He resists the urge to slam his fist into the mirror. While the sound of glass shattering surely would be satisfying, he knows from experience that no one's going to heal the cuts. He's still got some from previous episodes that won't go away.

It's been a week since school ended. Four days since Harry collapsed in the Dursleys back garden. Three since he woke up in Malfoy Manor with a concerned Medi-Witch by his side. Almost two weeks since he'd aided the murderer of his parents in regaining a body.

Voldemort is back, and Harry is to blame.

Harry stomps out of the bathroom. Raking his fingers through his mop of dark hair, he sits down heavily in the chair closest to him. He's being treated like a human being. Voldemort's given him his personal rooms, and he has enough clothes and is fed lots of delicious food.

It both surprises and disgusts him. He doesn't deserve that. He'd rather be treated like a cockroach, thrown into dungeons, burned at the stake, anything, **anything** other than this. He doesn't deserve praise for what he's done!

There's a knock on the door, interrupting his thoughts before they can take a violent (and familiar) turn. Harry looks up from the table, purses his lips, and doesn't say anything.

The door opens, and Lucius Malfoy step in. "My Lord," he says, bowing at the waist.

"I wish you'd stop calling me that," Harry mutters darkly, looking away from the man with a disgusted scowl.

"So do I," replies Malfoy, frowning grimly. "But as you very well know, my Lord – "

"Bond, yes, yes," Harry sighs, waving his hand dismissively in the air. "What does the snake want?"

Looking grateful for the change of subject, Malfoy bows again. "He wishes for your presence."

Harry slams his head into the table. God. The worst part of all of this is that he has to meet with Voldemort on a weekly basis. He can't even do that much about it, either – he's tried cursing him, both magically and verbally, but his words are always cut off half-way through by some outside source. Blasted bond.

"Where is he?" he asks, dejectedly pulling himself up from the chair.

"The office, my Lord."

Harry steps out of the room without a second look at the man. He frowns, wraps his arms around his torso, and looks down at his feet as he walks.

Maybe he should be hopping in joy; the father of his nemesis having to bow to his feet, Voldemort bound to him and giving him access to some of his secrets, the whole Malfoy Manor at his feet… but this wasn't what he wanted. He misses his friends, misses Hogwarts, misses even the Dursleys. In truth, he misses his dull daily life.

He's never liked change.

Malfoy falls into the step behind him, as he's taken to doing ever since a lone Death Eater attacked Harry upon sight. He isn't supposed to be seen or noticed, he's learned. God, he's really done it this year. As if being the Wizarding World's rag doll isn't bad enough, now he's an item to be stowed away whenever his owner feels like it.

Harry shudders at thinking of Voldemort as his owner.

The trek through the Manor is uneventful and boring. Malfoy doesn't speak, Harry's barely conscious, and the portraits they walk past keep their mutterings to themselves.

When they arrive, Malfoy steps past Harry to knock quietly on the solid oak door leading to the office. Moments later the door swings open. Magically, of curse. Voldemort can't be bothered to open his own doors, after all.

Voldemort is sitting by the desk, head bowed over a book of some kind, quill scratching against a parchment to his left. Upon Malfoy's entrance he looks up and grins. The scratch of quill against parchment doesn't stop. "Ah, Lucius," Voldemort says, voice smooth like water and so unlike what Harry heard in his first year.

The instincts formed by the mysterious bond flare up, and Harry grits his teeth and tenses. The swell of affection and protectiveness is easier to push aside now that he's gotten more familiar with it, but it's still bothersome and needs a lot of willpower to not rush over to the desk and throw himself at Voldemort's feet.

Not that he'd ever actually throw himself to his feet, more like into his lap – or around his neck, or – or something and why is Harry thinking about this?

Blasted, bloody **bond** –

"And Harry," Voldemort adds. "How nice to see you."

"Voldemort," Harry greets coldly, though he is relieved for the interruption.

Pleased grin still plastered on his face, Voldemort turns back to Lucius and nods. "Leave us," he orders shortly, and Malfoy bows out of the room without a word.

Immediately the atmosphere in the room shifts. Voldemort slumps forward, pinching the bridge of his nose (and wasn't that a surprise; Harry actually thought he'd been born without one) and sighing. "Harry," he says slowly, "I think we're on first-name basis, don't you?"

"Don't push it," Harry growls as he crosses his arms. "No way am I calling you Tom."

"Riddle, then," Voldemort offers. Harry nods tightly, if nothing else to get him off of his heels. "I wished to talk to you about the war."

Harry spins around and makes for the door, reaching for the door-handle. No way in fuck is he staying to listen to the Dark Lord talk about the war. Before he can open it the key turns with a soft click.

That blasted, cheating, fork-tongued –

"Really, Harry," Voldemort – Riddle, whatever – says, "I'd think you were more mature than that."

"This isn't a question about being mature," Harry spits back, turning around sharply to glare at him, "this is a question of being a murderous mad-man!"

Riddle's expression has gone dark while Harry was looking away. "Exactly," he growls.

Sighing angrily, Harry crosses his arms and falls into the chair opposite of Riddle's desk. The door is locked and he'll get nowhere by begging, he knows as much. "Fine," he grumbles darkly. "I'll listen."

Instead of starting a monologue, like Harry expects him to, Riddle leans forward and frowns. "What do you know about me, Harry?"

Harry raises his eyebrows. Is he for real? "That you're a crazy old man who slaughtered thousands of innocent people for the fun of it. That you're Evil and Dark and hate people who're different than you – that you're a disgusting, horrifying monster who cannot be tamed!" The last part is a shrill cry, and Harry lurches forward as he utters it, causing his bangs to fall into his eyes. He huffs, angrily flicking it away with a sharp jab of his chin.

Riddle offers him a dry look. "What you know, Harry. Not what you think you know."

Harry gapes, the anger vanishing in favour of shock. How the - barmy, old, fucking – "But – that's – " he stutters.

"The facts, Harry."

Harry shuts his mouth with a soft snap and looks down at his lap. He'd rather not anger Riddle too much. Maybe he should comply. Mysterious bonds aside, the man is insane. "You… ah, your real name is Tom Riddle," he begins, peering through his bangs. At Riddle's approving nod he continues. "You went to Hogwarts. You fought in the first Wizarding War. Your supporters are Death Eaters. You killed my parents and tried to kill me." – here he shoots him a dark, furious look – "You killed Cedric. You live in Malfoy Manor. You own a snake."

…is that really all he knows about him? God. There should be more, the man is his sworn enemy – by Jesus, Harry knows more about Malfoy – junior, that is – than Riddle, at this point.

"Very good, Harry," Riddle hisses quietly, Parseltongue sounding natural in his mouth, and for one instinctual second Harry preens at the praise – but then he realizes what he's doing and clomps down on the proud feeling welling in his chest, instead opting to scowl at nothing in particular. "Now, over to a far less known fact about me."

The scowl vanishes, and Harry sits straighter in his seat. If he ever gets back to Dumbledore this might be interesting information.

Riddle raises an eyebrow at his interest, but shakes his head and continues. "During the first Wizarding War I was utterly insane," he says matter-of-factly.

Harry blinks. Scoffs. "Everyone knows that," he says.

"Wrong," Riddle barks, slamming his fist into his desk. Harry jumps at the sudden move. "Everyone thinks they know that, and there's a difference between knowing and thinking that you know!"

Harry, eyes wide and not wishing to anger him further than necessary, nods hurriedly.

Riddle sits back in his chair and folds his hands. "Right," he says. "Well. As to how I was insane – do you know what a Horcrux is?"

Harry shakes his head.

"Give me an audible reply, boy!"

Wincing at the outburst and familiar name, Harry grits his teeth. "No, I don't know what a Horcrux is!"

Riddle nods before giving his reply. "By performing an ancient ritual involving cold-blooded murder you can tear your soul in two and have part of it placed in any item," he explains slowly, his voice monotone in the way bored teachers' are sometimes.

What? That's – that's –

…actually not that bad, now that he thinks about it. Of course, the murder-part is bad, and the magic is probably really dark, but the soul-splitting isn't as earth-shattering as Harry expected it to be. He'd sort of expected it to be more.

He nods slowly. At Riddle's pointed look he hurries to add an "I understand."

"During the first Wizarding War I was intent on reaching immortality," Riddle continues, as if Harry hasn't just already broken a rule, "and in my desperation, I resorted to creating a Horcrux. Several of them, in fact. Towards the end I had less than one percent soul left in my body." He smiles crookedly. "That's enough to drive any man insane."

It suddenly hits Harry that Riddle has yet to explain what he's doing here. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks. It's suspicious. Voldemort – Riddle, whatever – has never done anything just for the sake of it. There's always a reason to it, some hidden agenda, some way to world domination.

"During the ritual that gave me this body back – " –Riddle gestures at his very human face- " – some factors reacted poorly to each other. The result was that in recreating this body and tying my soul to it all my Horcruxes were broken." When Harry only blinks, Riddle sighs. "It means I'm 100 percent soul again." Another blink. "For Circe's sake, boy, I'm not insane anymore!"

Right.

"How am I supposed to believe that?" he asks, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge.

Riddle rises to the challenge and leans forward, gesturing with a quill as he speaks. "I have yet to curse you or your owl," he reminds Harry.

"The bond doesn't allow you to," Harry shoots back. Something – something strange happens to him, a sort of golden glow blooming in his chest, an odd kind of joy he's never felt before. He's not sure if he likes it or not.

"Ah, but I haven't tried, now, have I?" Riddle grins, leaning even further over the desk and resting his weight on his elbows.

Only now does Harry realize he's leaning forward as well, and he hurriedly sits back in his seat, pushing back the smile threatening to spill over his lips. Blast that damned bond!

He clears his throat. "I s'pose not," he mutters, shoulders slumping dejectedly. "Fine. Say I believe you're not insane. How does that change anything?"

"Muggles are dangerous," Riddle says promptly. "Their technology and scientific advantages are growing bigger by the day. They are already powerful enough to crush us, magic or no. They've even been to the moon, did you know that?"

Harry's about to nod, but catches himself just in time. "Yes," he says slowly and quietly, not really getting where Riddle is going with this. "Yes," he repeats, a little louder this time.

Nodding approvingly, Riddle continues. "The Ministry and wizarding world in general doesn't understand this. It's my goal to have them face the truth."

Harry shakes his head and frowns. How was murders going to help with that? "But you – in the first War – ?"

"I was insane," Riddle reminds him sternly, "I thought it seemed like a good idea, but it's not possible. It's not my goal to have them erased from Earth, but rather have the Wizarding World understand what threat they pose and have them take measures to fix it. Force fields, securing islands, come to a solution concerning muggleborn and half-bloods… etcetera."

But – but that doesn't make sense! Harry's talking to the man who killed his parents, damn it, he's not supposed to be logical or calm or – or anything! He really doesn't like this.

"But – " Harry repeats. "Why are you telling me this?"

"We're bonded," Riddle says. He grimaces at the word. Hah, Harry understands that sentient perfectly fine – he'd rather be unbonded, as well. "Whether we like it or not, that's how it is. For the unforeseeable future that is unlikely to change. And that's why I want your assistance. In other words, I want you on my side."

"What!?" Harry cries in sudden outrage, jumping to his feet and barely noticing when the chair he's been sitting in falls to the floor. "No way! Not happening!" He pulls a deep breath and points an accusing finger in Riddle's direction. "You're trying to brainwash me, that's what's happening here! And I won't allow it!"

Before he can give Riddle a chance to reply, he storms out of the room and slams the door shut behind him. Not waiting for Malfoy to catch up with him he stomps towards his rooms. The nerve of that man – !

Back in the office, Tom rests his head in his hands and groan. "That could've gone better."

* * *

Dear Harry,

We're all very worried for you, but at your continued insistence that you're fine (and Professor Dumbledore's got it checked, so we know that you're being genuine, don't worry) and since no one has been able to find you, everyone's sort of decided to just leave you be.

I don't understand, Harry. Why can't you tell us where you are or who you're with? I just want to help. You better have some answers when you get back to Hogwarts!

How's your summer coming along otherwise? Are you getting any studying done? Ron hasn't even begun on the first batch of homework yet. I hope you're still doing fine by the time you read this, and that whoever you're with is treating you right.

-Hermione

Harry sits back in his chair, absentmindedly petting Hedwig before handing her a treat. He's not sure what or how to reply to such a letter. Physically he's fine, and… well, he isn't being tortured, either. Really, ever since Riddle'd tried to rope him into the war, things have been eerily quiet.

He looks over at the open window and sighs. The last few days he's had a lot of time to think about recent… predicaments. He's had troubles sleeping at night, lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling with a knot in his chest until the morning sun peeked in through his windows.

If Voldemort – Tom Riddle – isn't insane… if his goals are to make the Wizarding World a safer place… well, Harry's seen what Muggles can do to something they don't understand, and –

screwing his eyes shut Harry lets out a deep groan.

It must be the bond. It must be. Riddle – Voldemort – he murdered his parents, attempted to murder him, sicked a basilisk on the student population of Hogwarts, killed and slaughtered and tore apart –

but had that been Tom Riddle, the man Harry's seen sitting in the study with a grin on his lips, or the Dark Lord Voldemort, the parasite at the back of his professors head? Are they even remotely the same person?

A fucking traitor, that's what Harry is – how can he be doing this to his friends, to his family –

he pushes away from the table with a growl. The move causes his inkwell to fall over, spilling ink all over Hermione's letter, and it fuels Harry's anger, ambers flaring to a roaring bonfire. He stomps determinedly into the bathroom to punch his reflection in the face – cuts be damned.

He can't be siding with the bastard, damn it!

Afterward he sinks to his knees in the middle of shattered glass reflecting a broken reality, and he sobs into his bloodied hands –

because he does.

Riddle is right.

Voldemort is wrong. Terribly wrong. But he was insane. Voldemort was insane.

But if what Riddle told him a week ago is right, and he really is sane now… if Tom Riddle and Voldemort are nearly two separate people…

Harry still needs more proof, but he comes to a realization within himself as he sits there. If everything Riddle told him is true… then Harry will stand by his side, bond or no bond.

The sobbing doesn't cease. He hates himself for it; for betraying his friends and his family, for tearing the world as he knows it apart, for siding with a (if not in mind, then at least in body) murderer.

But he can't for it.

Riddle is right.

The Muggles are dangerous.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, when Harry wakes up and after he's dressed, he almost starts crying again. He can't believe he's doing this. He can't believe he's actually doing this. God.

He steels himself, takes a deep breath, and opens his door. Malfoy is standing outside, hand poised to knock, and they both stare awkwardly at each other for a moment before Malfoy slowly lowers his hand again. "Good morning, my Lord," he greets.

"Malfoy," Harry says coldly. "I wanna eat in the Dining Hall today."

Malfoy is apparently very apt at concealing his emotions, for he doesn't even twitch at the near-order. Instead, he nods, turns in a flurry of robes, and stalks down the hall. "Follow me," he throws over his shoulder, and Harry hurries to stumble after him.

They follow more or less the same route as Harry took a few days prior, but when they come to the large portrait of Mr. Pig-Man (not his real name, but honestly he looks like a damned pig) they go left instead of right. A few minutes later, after a trek through unfamiliar parts of the manor, Malfoy knocks harshly on a seemingly random door.

It swings open, and Harry immediately regrets his decision to tell Riddle here.

At the table set in the center of the room sits a few Death Eaters, and when the door opens they all turn to look expectantly at it. By the far-end of the table sits Voldemort – or, no, it's Riddle-as-Voldemort, isn't it? If the monster from the first War is gone, the person at the end of the table must be the man Harry talk to some days earlier. Riddle-as-Voldemort, then.

"Ah," Riddle-as-Voldermot says, the voice again the raspy and worn from Harry's first year. "James. Come." He beckons Harry closer, and while Harry is both terribly confused and horribly horrified, he scurries over to the table. He might not like Riddle, but he's the only object of familiarity in here, and so he prefers to be over by him, rather than an unfamiliar Death Eater. The chair to Riddle's right is pushed out from the table, either by Riddle's foot or magic, and so Harry hurries to sit down on it.

The Death Eaters soon lose interest in him and return to their food, some of them muttering between themselves and discussing who the newcomer is. Strange.

"You're under a delusion," Riddle says matter-of-factly, not looking at Harry but rather his own food. "Only Lucius, you, and I are keyed into it. Anyone else sees you as a blond man in his thirties."

Harry nods wordlessly and reaches for the bread. He's unused to getting explanations when he doesn't ask for them, but he's not about to be complaining.

"Is there a reason for your visit?" Riddle asks, after a brief pause, and – is Harry imagining things, or is there a trace of amusement in his voice?

"I…" Harry trails off, hand hovering above the breadbasket. "You said you wanted me on this side of the war," he says quietly. He pulls back his hand from the basket and tucks it into his lap, some mild color rising in his cheeks. "I won't murder or torture or anything, but if what you say is right, we're on the same side."

He's doing it. He's actually doing it. Right now.

Riddle stops chewing and stares at him. The seconds grow longer and more awkward as they tick by.

Harry fidgets. "Er," he says. "Are you – "

"Great," Riddle interrupts him, swallowing and nodding quickly. "Good, that's that. I'm going to teach you."

"Wh – I'm not returning to Hogwarts? I have to go back to Hogwarts, I'm not betraying my friends completely!" Harry complains.

Riddle scowls. "Of course you're returning to Hogwarts," he says, "I won't have you running around here the whole year. Besides, I need you out there."

He – does? The bond swells at the thought of Riddle needing him, but Harry very resolutely clamps down on it. Damn it all. "Why?" he asks, perhaps a bit too harsh. Then again, it's Riddle. Nothing's too harsh on him.

"Spying," Riddle explains promptly. He shoots a pointed look at the closest Death Eater and leans towards Harry. Harry unconsciously leans closer, as well. "Let's say I need Harry Potter on my team, hm?" Riddle whispers.

And what the fuck is that supposed to mean? What's up with the emphasis on his name? Even though his last name is Riddle he doesn't have to act like one!

Apparently noticing his confusion, Riddle sighs impatiently. "The public you," he hisses. "Come to my office later. We have to talk about this."

"Alright," Harry mutters, going back to his food once it becomes obvious that Riddle isn't going to say anything else.

The rest of breakfast passes without much hassle. On the plus side, the curious glances thrown in his direction stop when Riddle glares at his followers. At least they listen to him.

Not that he'd been expecting anything else from a Dark Lord.

* * *

Later, when Harry knocks on Riddle's office, his nerves aren't nearly as frayed as they were the last time. Could be the bond, but it could also be Harry settling in with the idea that Riddle isn't out to hurt him – at least not anymore.

Riddle greets him with a nod and gestures for one of the chairs opposite of his desk. After Harry sits down, he summons a box from the room next door. He guides it over to Harry with a soft flick of his wand and proceeds to drop it into Harry's lap without a word.

"Wh – " Harry begins.

"Death Eater robes," Riddle interrupts. At Harry's horrified look he rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying you're supposed to take the Dark Mark, you idiot. The other Death Eaters are confused. By wearing this they understand that you're not an intruder."

Harry puts the box on the floor and nods. "Okay," he hurries to add when Riddle throws him a murderous look.

"Otherwise… hm," Riddle continues, tilting his head and tapping his chin with the feathered end of a quill. "When school starts again you are going back. Having one of mine inside of the castle will be very useful, but I also need your publicity to help have the Ministry realize the threat Muggles pose."

"And how am I supposed to help with that?" Harry asks, more out of confusion that curiosity. "I'm not murdering anyone."

"I don't need you to murder anyone," Riddle reassures him, only appearing a tad impatient, "and yes, that includes torture," he adds, when Harry opens his mouth to ask about that very thing. "I need you to… shall we say push… the Minister, concerning the Muggle threat. You have a massive following and hold far more political power than you think," Riddle explains.

Harry sinks into his chair with a sigh. Politics. Great. "Alright," he says. "Say I agree. How am I supposed to do it?"

"It's certainly a long-term project," Riddle says. "First of all, make sure you're on the Minister's side."

" – Fudge?" Harry repeats. "But how?"

"Send letters, contact him," Riddle says, waving a hand lazily as he explains, "make sure he knows he has your vote, set up meetings, tell him you agree with his views, and so on. I can have Lucius tell you a thing or two about manipulation if you want."

Still unsure about exactly how he's supposed to do it, Harry nods. "Do you… do you want to be Minister of Magic?" he asks slowly, after a brief pause.

"No," Riddle scoffs. "I want safety for wizarding kind. I don't want to rule, only have a powerful position."

Sure. Whatever you say, Riddle.

"Because of our bond," Riddle continues, still grimacing at the word, "you will have a position as my right-hand. Which is why I will teach you."

"Right-hand?" Harry squeaks. That is not what he expected – he – the right-hand of Voldemort, what is he **doing –**

Riddle, a small part of him forcefully whispers, the right-hand of **Riddle**.

Ah… right. Voldemort doesn't truly exist anymore.

"Yes," Riddle confirms. "I'll require you to attend most, if not all, Death Eater meetings and to stay updated on recent happenings in the Wizarding World and my – our – progress."

"And you?" Harry asks.

Riddle blinks. "Me?" he repeats. "What about me?"

"What are you required to do?" Harry clarifies. He's not letting Riddle have the upper hand in this arrangement, even if he isn't the murderous mad-man he believed him to be.

"As your Lord? Nothing. As your – " – he frowns unhappily – " – bonded, I will answer almost any question, give you sound advice to the best of my ability, and offer you protection as well as a home."

Harry shudders at the thought of ever calling Malfoy Manor home, but he nods nonetheless. "Does that mean we know what sort of bond it is?" he asks, eager for it to be broken and for him to be free. Fair, he might be willing to fight on Riddle's side, but no way is he willingly staying bonded to him!

"Not yet, no," Riddle says, shaking his head, causing the spark of hope to die out as fast as it came. "I have Wormtail searching books in some of the Death Eater libraries, however."

"Wormtail?" Harry repeats, scrunching up his nose in disgust at the traitorous name. Although… maybe he shouldn't talk too much about being a traitor. "Can he even read?" he asks, partially in genuine curiosity and partially to make a joke.

Riddle snorts. "Sometimes I doubt it," he admits. He then changes subjects. "As to how you should act here in the Manor…" He trails off, looking into the distance as he takes a moment to think. "Do whatever, I guess. Don't tell anyone who you are, don't break anything, don't speak Parseltongue, don't start a fight…"

Harry rolls his eyes and nods. "Who would I even speak Parseltongue to?"

Riddle gives him a scrutinizing look. "Well, Nagini has been complaining about feeling lonely lately…"

"Your - your snake?" Harry splutters. "God."

Chuckling, Riddle shakes his head. "No matter," he says, before again changing subjects out of the blue. "I will tutor you in Defence, as I refuse to believe that Hogwarts offers anything half-decent in that area. Other than that I will teach you how to behave in the world of politics." Here his eyes take an evil glint, and Riddle grins before rubbing his hands together while chuckling darkly. "Oh, politics…"

"Er," Harry says. "Right. I'll just… be on my way, then." He's about to stand up when Riddle holds out a hand, glint suddenly gone.

"Wait," he says, "I'm not done. We still haven't discussed the bond." Ah, yes. The bloody, fucking, bullshit bond. Harry sits back in his chair with a grunt. Riddle doesn't look very pleased with having to discuss this thing they both obviously hate. Which is a relief and comfort. At least Harry isn't alone in that department.

"What about it?" Harry grumbles dejectedly.

"Based on other bonds – especially soul-bonds – and other's experiences, we may expect our bond to change over time," Riddle explains. "It will need us to be in closer proximity to each other, for one – "

"-CLOSER PROXIMITY?" Harry shrieks, interrupting Riddle before he can complain and sitting straight as a ruler in his chair. "What!? No way – "

There's a beat. Riddle slowly arches an eyebrow. "Calm down," he drawls drily. "I didn't say we were going to have sex."

Harry blushes furiously and sinks back into the chair. "It bloody well sounded like it," he mutters. The blush intensifies when Riddle doesn't give an immediate reply.

Riddle rolls his eyes. "I meant that we will have to sit closer to each other. Casual touching will also play a major role."

"Like, what? Holding hands?" Harry asks, eyes growing wide again. Imagine – taking a stroll in Malfoy Manor while holding hands with the Dark Lord! Sex would almost be better, for God's sake!

"No," Riddle sighs impatiently. "Like patting the other's shoulder, placing a hand on the other's elbow while talking… not shying away from touch but not initiating it, either."

Goddamnit. Harry, who's never been a fan of touching, now has to hold up with it on the daily. With the bloody Dark Lord. Hermione is going to kill him.

Harry grumbles something darkly but doesn't reply.

"Well," Riddle says, "since you're going to be my right-hand, I suppose you'll have to learn my plans." He looks distinctively uncomfortable at this. "To begin with, I'm planning on breaking my Death Eaters out of Azkaban."

"Why?" Harry interrupts. He frowns. "If your goal isn't to rid of muggleborns and half-bloods, why do you need those pureblood fanatics?"

"There's strength in numbers," Riddle explains. "Besides, having them on my side – somewhat – helps tons when it comes to political power and the likes. I'm not saying I agree with them," he hurries to add when Harry opens his mouth to speak. "I'm just saying that I need their numbers."

With a small sigh, Harry waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Fine, whatever," he mutters. "Continue."

And Riddle does.

* * *

A… traitor?

Is that truly what he is?

Harry turns in the mirror to inspect himself from another direction. He has to admit, the Death Eater robes look good on him. Strikingly good, actually. The hint of green at the neck compliments his eyes.

Okay, so maybe he still feels bad for doing this. But… this far there hasn't even been any mentions about murdering anyone. Just some light torture, and Harry is a liar if he tries to tell himself that the Death Eaters don't deserve it. He just doesn't want to hand out the torture himself, which Riddle has assured him he doesn't have to.

Yet.

Turning to the other side and throwing a look over his shoulder, Harry realizes that he's changed. Or more correctly, he's changing. If it's the bond making him softer and easier to meld or if he genuinely wants this change isn't easy to tell, but… well, if he wants it, he wants it, yeah?

Smoothing down the front of his robes, Harry frowns. He's not siding with Voldemort, he tells his consciousness for the umpteenth time. He's siding with Riddle. He's not siding with an insane murderer wanting to take revenge. He's siding with someone who wants safety and peace for the Wizarding kind and is prepared to take a slightly dirtied path towards it.

He looks away from the mirror.

He still feels bad.

He can regret it all he wants, it's too late to go back now.

* * *

The next day Harry stands in front of the small group of Death Eaters as Jakobus "James" Joubert, Riddle's right-hand and apprentice.

It's weird to see Malfoy Junior – Draco, as he should probably be calling him, now – hovering by the door, where Malfoy Senior – Lucius? – has told him to stay. There's awe and fearful jealousy in his eyes, along with a deep horror that hasn't quite breached the surface yet.

Harry is surprised he can see it in the tenseness of his shoulders but supposes that he shouldn't be too surprised. He received a lecture two days ago about body-language, after all, and he's always tried his best to learn as fast as possible. Not that weird that he can read Mal – Draco like an open book.

* * *

A few weeks pass like this. The bond strengthens, and while Harry is disgusted when he thinks about it, there's not much to do. There's no use fighting it before they can find a way to cancel it – if such a way even exists –, and so Riddle and Harry go along with it. Although, to be honest, there's a fair amount of kicking and screaming. From both parties.

They strike up a somewhat friendship, to their great surprise and horror… although the horror fades after a day or two. Harry even slips up and calls Riddle "Tom" on an occasion or two, and while he blushes afterward, Riddle doesn't seem to mind.

One evening, just after dinner, Harry storms into the library and throws himself into the couch Riddle's sitting on. Without waiting for his reaction Harry silently grabs Riddle's hand before glaring in the opposite direction. He blushes the most furious blush he's ever blushed, his neck and ears reddening until they're almost the same shade as Ron's hair -

but Riddle, apparently understanding, only returns to his book and lets Harry sit by his side for as long as the bond requires.

(He's not ashamed to admit he's grateful Harry takes the first step.)

They – for it is they, Harry stands by Riddle's side throughout the entire thing and watches, only mildly uncomfortable, as two Aurors die – manage to successfully break the remaining Death Eater's out of Azkaban. Then follows another round of introducing-James-the-apprentice, which leads to a pissed Bellatrix LeStrange glaring at a table until it's set aflame.

Harry watches, faintly amused, as Riddle berates her and has Wormtail strip his shirt to put out the fire – solemnly to humiliate the bastard, of course. Riddle's fully capable of putting out the fire himself. He just likes to watch Wormtail struggle.

Although Riddle had probably been joking – and isn't that a shock when Harry realizes the man actually has a sense of humor –, Harry somehow manages to strike up a friendship with Nagini. Of course, he can only talk to her behind closed doors, but when he walks through the halls of Malfoy Manor she still drapes herself around his shoulders, hissing sarcastic commentary along the way.

This, of course, serves to have the Death Eaters slightly terrified of him. Nagini hates everyone, according to them, and anyone who manages to not be strangled by her must, therefore, be EvilTM.

(Harry doesn't bother correcting them, and Riddle laughs himself silly when he mentions it.)

While Harry slowly comes to terms with this new, strange life he's sort-of-chosen for himself, he still has nightmares. He still misses his friends. There are still the brief moments where he catches his own gaze in the mirror and has to hurriedly look away, eyes burning with unshed tears. There are still moments where he doubts, where he hates, where he's disgusted.

But the moments of quiet peace in the library or the swoosh of robes around his ankles or the soft voice of Riddle as he explains another dueling stance are far more frequent than the moments of pain –

and soon those fleeting moments of pain will be completely gone, as, during one of their searches in the Malfoy Library, Riddle stumbles upon a book on past lives and reincarnation.


	4. Chapter 4

There's _so much interesting_ in these books! He can't _believe_ what's managed to slip past him the first fourteen years of his life! No wonder Hermione finds reading so fun; it's actually _interesting_. Especially when he's reading about something he likes or wants to know!

Harry is, at the current moment, fawning over a book on Semi-Dark Spells. He's reading in the Malfoy Library, sitting in one of the comfiest couches Malfoy Manor has to offer. Riddle is next to him, lounging on the _armrest,_ of all places. Harry would think it's a bit strange, but as Harry is currently busy reading a book, he doesn't think much.

After almost half an hour in silence, Riddle speaks up. "Look at this," he says, dropping his book into Harry's lap. There's a sting of irritation at this, but Harry waves it away and opts for looking up at Riddle in confusion. At seeing this, Riddle sighs and points to a seemingly random paragraph in the book. " _This_. Look at _this_."

Honestly, he should've gotten used to Harry not always understanding by now. Shaking his head, Harry turns to the book. It's old, the papers moldy and stiff between his fingers, the bindings yellowed and leather - but as with all of the books here, it radiates power. Dark power.

Harry begins to read.

 _Although the use of this spell has greatly dwindled throughout the years, there are still those who seek it out and attempt to use it. It is especially common among pureblooded families to have their children perform the spell on their 17th birthday, so that they can see if they have lived before or not – and if they have, who they were, and what they did._

As Harry reads his eyes grow wider and wider in disbelief. "-you – are you saying what I think you're saying?" Harry asks, quickly looking up at Riddle with the same wide eyes.

"What do you _think_ I'm saying, Harry?" Riddle says quietly, shifting his weight to lean towards him. The hand that's been resting on the back of the couch now tangles into Harry's hair. Harry would've reacted to this treatment, but as Riddle has been playing with his hair more often than not the last few days, he only tilts his head into the touch and frowns.

"Er… that… that we might have lived before?" he says, fighting the pleased contentment the bond has overwhelming him. Hey, it's not his fault! Riddle has a nice – no, that sounds wrong – very – he has very _deft_ fingers – no, God, that sounds wrong even within his own head.

"Not necessarily, no," Riddle says. "The book explains that most powerful Wizards are new to the world, and that their souls have yet to tire themselves out. The chances for us having lived before are slim – though it's still worth a try."

"I'm not that powerful," Harry frowns.

"Oh, come now, Harry," Riddle exclaims, pulling his hand away from Harry's head to gracefully pluck the book out of his lap. "I've seen you duel. You're far more powerful than the average wizard."

Harry blushes at the compliment and pouts at the lack of contact. He very deftly ignores both. "So you want me to perform the spell." It's not a question.

"I want _us_ to perform the spell," Riddle corrects. "Go back to reading. I will tell you when I know what to do."

Nodding, Harry returns to his book.

After five minutes or so Riddle summons a quill and some parchment and begins to take notes. Harry doesn't bother him, but still keeps a look at him out of the corner of his eye. It's fun to see how fast the quill dances over the parchment, and while the scratch of quill-against-paper would be irritating, it only serves for Harry to have some background noise. If he was still reading, of course. Which he's not. He's staring at Riddle.

He's staring.

At Riddle.

Harry turns back to his book with a frustrated look.

After ten more minutes, Riddle slams his book shut. Harry jumps. "Good," Riddle mutters to himself as he stands up from the couch, parchment scrolls in hand. "Come, Harry. Duelling room."

Harry, not even bothering to complain about being near-ordered around anymore, shoots up from the couch and hurries after Riddle. The man is _fast_ , damn it. Harry's gotten lost quite a few times when he was too slow to keep up with him.

Thankfully, Harry manages to keep his pace this time, and they arrive at the Duelling room after an uneventful walk. There are a few Death Eaters practicing there, but after a sharp look from Riddle they hurry out the door, fleeing like a pack of rats.

Riddle stalks to the centre of the room and turns around sharply, robes whipping in the air around his ankles. "I will first cast the spell on myself," Riddle explains, in the emotion-less tone Harry has come to recognize as his teacher voice. "After, I will cast it on you," Riddle continues. "I will most likely be unconscious for a few minutes, but I should regain consciousness after less than half-an-hour."

"What do I do if you don't?" Harry asks. A sudden throb of worry has him hesitating for a moment. Why is he worried? Is he worried for Riddle's health? For his mental state? For his own health? Maybe it's the bond?

"Find Lucius," Riddle says, interrupting Harry's train of thought. "Stay close in case the bond reacts, but otherwise, don't do anything stupid."

"You're sure this won't kill you?" Harry asks, worrying the sleeves of his robes between shaking hands.

"Quite," Riddle mutters, shrugging off his outer robes and flinging them in Harry's direction. He catches them, barely, and proceeds to dump them un-ceremonially at the floor.

With a (jokingly?) disgusted look at Harry, Riddle rolls his shoulders, schools his expression, and aims his wand to the roof.

He begins chanting in another language Harry doesn't recognize, brows furrowed in concentration, wand held still even as the tip begins to glow.

 _Oh,_ Harry thinks, as magic swirls around them. This is the first time he sees Riddle perform an actual powerful and draining spell – he's in for quite the show.

The air begins to whip around Riddle, the temperature in the room sinking a grade or two. Harry stares, wide-eyed, as the magic resonates around him, radiating from Riddle in thick, dark tendrils and caressing his body aimlessly. The power, the _magic,_ feels – it feels almost _tight_ , like there's too much of it in one place, like it's waiting to be released, and Harry _shudders_.

It feels _wonderful_. Is – is Riddle really this powerful? He must be, right? God – Harry can't really believe it. Even when Dumbledore used his magic the air around him didn't react like this, and Riddle hasn't even been giving off quite this glow before, either –

The magic tightens even further, pulling back into Riddle for a short moment as the man hesitates – but then he speaks one last time, the word oddly enthralling coming from his mouth, and the glow of his wand increases for one moment – the world seems to hesitate, time halting to a stop – and –

the magic _explodes_ , the forceful blast that follows causing Harry to lose his balance and crash to the floor.

The next few seconds are chaotic, Harry's vision swimming and his chest running a thousand mils per hour in his chest, a thunderous noise echoing in his ears.

When the magic calms, after something that seems like forever, Harry has to lie still on the floor for a moment. He stares up at the roof, chest heaving with each breath he takes – and a slow grin spreads across his face. That was _awesome_ – the power, the tendrils, the magic –

he sits up slowly, arms shaking and ears ringing. The room is silent.

Too silent.

Riddle!

Harry twists too fast, and his back pops painfully at the abuse, but he doesn't care. The room is mostly empty, so Harry spots his teacher relatively easily. Riddle is out cold on the floor, sprawled in a position that will definitely give him pains later on. Worry seeps into Harry's veins like cold iron, and he stumbles to his knees and begins to run before he's even fully up. "Riddle!" he cries, as he very nearly falls. "Tom!"

He falls to the floor next to Riddle, hands hovering uncertainly above his shoulders as he bites his lip. Riddle's always the one to initiate contact, he doesn't like being touches without his consent – but – but Harry has to do something, _anything_ –

the bond twists, deep behind his heart, and he doesn't hesitate. Wrapping his arms around Riddle's shoulders, Harry pulls him up into a sitting position before cradling him protectively to his chest.

He's warm.

Harry grits his teeth, throat clenching around every breath he tries to take, and pulls Riddle closer.

"It's okay," he whispers. He doesn't know if Riddle can hear him, wherever he is, but just in case he can… "I'm here. It's fine. You're safe." He rocks a bit back and forth, but when he casts a look down on Riddle his breath hitches and he has to stop.

He can't explain it, the tug at his soul. There's just something about seeing the most feared Wizard of his time in his arms, completely vulnerable and at his mercy.

 _This is it_ , he realizes. He could – he could kill him, now, kill him – strangle him with his bare hands and rid the world of his evil –

Harry reaches towards Riddle's face with a shaky hand –

and brushes his bangs away with a soft smile. Letting his hand trail further down, Harry's fingers linger at Riddle's cheek before pulling away.

He can't. The bond won't let him.

He won't let himself.

His heart beats in his chest, throwing itself against his ribs as if it's begging to be set free, and he only smiles serenely as he pulls Riddle closer.

Some time later – minutes or hours, Harry doesn't know – and Riddle sluggishly blinks his eyes open. Harry isn't looking at him, instead opting to stare pointedly at the wall to his right as he tries his best to ignore the blush in his cheeks. He waits for a reaction – for Riddle to push him away, to ask who he is, to react to any possible memories of a possible last life – but the man only sits up. The move _is_ somewhat clumsy, somewhat hesitant, but he doesn't say anything before he shifts away from Harry.

The comforting warmth suddenly missing is like a punch to Harry's gut, but he swallows it down and gathers his fists in his lap. "Well?" he asks. "You learned anything?"

Riddle blinks at him for a moment, eyes shadowed and dazed, but then he blinks the layers of clouds away and shakes his head numbly. "No," he says. "I haven't lived before."

Harry shrugs. "At least you tried, yeah?"

Riddle blinks again. "Indeed," he says – slowly, but not quite a drawl. He frowns and looks around, inspecting the walls for… whatever reason. Harry isn't sure if he wants to know. Whatever Riddle saw just now… it can't have been good.

Harry stands up, Riddle trying to follow suit but ending up stumbling in his own feet and nearly falling. Harry catches him by the elbow and frowns worriedly. "Are you okay?" he hurries to ask, the worry bleeding into his voice.

Riddle shakes his head, but Harry can tell it's a gesture meant to clear his thoughts, rather than telling Harry _no_. "I'm fine," Riddle says. He doesn't step away from Harry's touch. "Right. Your turn."

Harry winces. If this is Riddle's reaction to the spell, he's not sure if he wants to undergo the same treatment… but now's too late to go back, he supposed. "Alright," he says, and nods. "Go for it."

Riddle is still the one to cast the spell, thank God. Harry doesn't have the brain capacity to remember such a long string of foreign words, and would probably mess it all up if he tried. Better to let Riddle have at it. The power, the pure _magic_ of the spell still feels the same, but it moves differently this time – instead of pulsing out of Riddle in waves upon waves of delight, the tendrils reach out and wrap around Harry, tying him to Riddle in an odd, physical manifestation of their bond.

Harry holds his breath as Riddle speaks the final word, the wand-tip lights up, the magic peaks, and –

everything goes dark and then it all comes rushing back to him, water lit up by the sun and the quiet infirmary of home, a gentle voice and a gentle hand and a voice that's his own speaking in hushes tones, flicks of a wand he recognizes, gentle streams of water, crying in the middle of the night, staring up at a starless sky and still seeing them in the shattering of his own heart, and oh, _oh_ , he _remembers_.

The memories come rushing, all of them, his death at sixty-three, his mother's gentle voice, the Mediwitch that'd trained him, every single one of his patients, and when Harrison – Harry – opens his eyes, Tom is more like a faint memory than someone he spoke to moments ago, and oh god this is confusing but even as he lives in the moment of 1014 he –

he remembers Tom, and Dumbledore, and his friends, and – and – and –

The first thing Harry sees when he opens his eyes is Riddle – Tom – looking down at him, something off about his eyes that sets Harrison on edge. The first thing Harry notices is that Tom – Riddle – is carding his fingers through his hair – _again_ , his mind supplies, _he's done it before_. And there, beneath layers of memories about charms, lies a faded memory of Tom reading a book while petting Harry's hair.

Harrison groans. "I have been a fool," he says, because he remembers his reaction to being bonded to Tom, and he remembers all this man has done for him, and how can he _not_ be grateful?

"Oh?" Tom says, raising an eyebrow. "How so?"

Harry covers his face with his hands, struggling to remember why he did this. Why, oh, _why_ is it easier to remember that specific detail from his past life – and it _must_ have been his past since he remembers dying then but not here, right? – but not what he was reading about an hour prior? What is _happening_ to him?

His head is spinning, a painful ache already settling into his bones, heart constricting and breath coming raggedly, tearing painfully through his throat even as his ears start ringing. "I – " he tries to say, but his vision goes blurry and he grunts, screwing his eyes shut. Damn it! "I will faint," he manages to choke out, "get me somewhere where I cannot hurt myself when I wake up."

Harry – _Harrison_ – manages to catch Riddle's – _Tom's_ \- expression go alarmed before everything goes black again.

He shouldn't have told Harry about the spell. He shouldn't have read the book. He shouldn't have performed the spell on Harry when he realized what it does to the body. He shouldn't have performed the spell at _all_ , damn it!

Tom tugs at his hair as he paces, from the window farthest away from the entrance and back to the door. Now he's gone and managed to get his bonded unconscious – he's splayed out in a hospital bed, expression mostly peaceful. Every now and then his fingers twitch and he mutters something under his breath, but he hasn't woken up ever since Tom performed that blasted spell on him.

He hadn't been able to look at him for too long, not really, but – but there was something _off_ about him when he woke up, something haunted in his gaze, and Tom _doesn't understand it,_ he doesn't _like_ it – doesn't – doesn't _want it_ , and Merlin, he wishes he could go back and – and change it – he doesn't even know if Harry will ever wake up, and what will happen to the bond _then_?

Incidentally, Harry _does_ wake up. Harrison wakes up. Argh – _he_ wakes up. He manages to focus on the moment here and now, enough to tell Riddle – Tom – Voldemort – about his other life, and the man is in near-awe when Harr – isson tells him about Hogwarts during the founders' era, explaining his job as a Mediwizard in the infirmary.

The immediate moment he doesn't have much to focus on, however, the memories resurface, and – and they're so _tangled_ , he doesn't _understand_ , doesn't _get it_ , and it **_hurts_** , he doesn't know how to fix it and _that_ hurts _as well –_

it's not like it's that hard! It's not like Harry and Harrison are two different people! It's just – they have different memories, and – and knowledge –

There are moments where Harry is confused at what he's done before, moments where Harrison is disgusted at some of the choices he's made in this life – and while they aren't two different people, they also… sort of are? Just – just not two people in the same body, but two people inhabiting the same body at intervals, and – and it's all really confusing, really, he barely understands it himself –

and there are moments where _everything_ tangles, where he doesn't fully understand who he is or where he's at, because he doesn't remember _why_ he remembers, and – and –

he spends the next week walking around, terribly confused, sometimes shrieking when a snake – Nagini? – talks to him (talks it talks it _talks_ ), sometimes seeking Tom out but then being disgusted at himself for _thinking_ of him as Tom instead of _Voldemort_ , and –

Tom – _Voldemort_ – **_Tom_** tries to help him as well as he can, offering comfort where he can and advice when Harrison asks for it, but Harry isn't very receiving, even if Harrison is. One time, when he's walking around in an utter, complete daze while being on the brink of tears because of something that happened _a millennial_ ago, Tom – _Riddle_ steps out of a room, worried frown on his brow, but when he tries to speak –

 _Harry is one and a man murders his mother cold-bloodedly, Harry is eleven and the same mad-man attempts to persuade him to a path of evil, Harry is twelve and a sneering teen is ordering a basilisk to murder his friend's sister, Harry is thirteen and he loses his godfather to the man, Harry is in Dumbledore's office and listening to a lecture about abiding the rules while the old man still approves of his choices, Harry is fourteen and sees Cedric die by **Voldemort's hand** –_

" _Stay away from me!_ " Harry screams, backing away from Voldemort – _Tom – **Voldemort**_ as fast as he can, and even when his back hits the wall he wants to disappear into it. "You _killed my family_!"

There's a moment where everything is quiet, Harry's heart is quiet, Voldemort is staring at him in shock, even the blasted _snake_ has shut up –

and then tears well up in Voldemort's eyes.

"I'm sorry!" he yells, said tears welling over to stream down his cheeks and the words cutting deeply into Harry's heart and Harrison's soul. "I'm _sorry_ , damn it! I wish I could go back and _change it_ , _change who I was, change what I **did**_!" Here he cuts himself off and sobs, hands balling into fists at his side.

Harrison – Harry – blinks, and suddenly he _isn't_ looking at a mad-man any longer, he's looking at the man who very apologetically told him that he'd been insane, he's looking at the broken shell of a kid who's just _trying_ , just _doing his best_ , he's looking at Riddle, he's looking at Tom, and –

Tom falls to his knees, shoulders shaking with his wails as he covers his face with his hands and lets out years of faded pain. "I'm _sorry_!" he repeats. "I regret it so much – I – I'm so, so sorry – "

Harrison rushes over to him, heart screaming out in pain, because he's a _Healer_ , damn it, he's not supposed to cause pain! He sits down before Tom and doesn't hesitate before hugging him, and Tom tenses for a moment before lurching forward and wrapping his arms around Harry, pulling him even closer than they already are.

"It's okay," Harry whispers, tucking Tom's head into the crook of his neck and burying his hand in his hair. "It's okay, Tom – I – I know you didn't – "

Tom sobs into his chest, and within Harry – within Harrison – something _cracks._ He recognizes this kind of sobbing, the tears brought on after a dam falls apart and pent up emotions are let out.

Tom's been hoarding this pain, this regret, this _horror_ … for _weeks_.

He's _Tom,_ he's **_Tom_** , he isn't _Voldemort_ , he isn't _Riddle_ , he's a broken and hurting child just wanting the best for the world –

And Harry's memories click into place.


	5. Chapter 5

"I want Healer Robes," Harry declares the moment he storms into Tom's office.

"Okay," Tom says without looking up from his work.

"Wh – you're not supposed to agree!" Harry complains. Pulling a scroll of parchment out of his robes he stalks towards Tom's desk. "I have arguments!"

Tom looks up from his notes and grins. "Really?" he asks, laughter vibrant in his voice. "You have arguments to get a new pair of robes?"

"Well – " Harry cuts himself off with a dark murmur. "Agh, fine. Don't disagree, then. I still want the robes."

"Of course," Tom replies, tucking away a parchment and reaching for a new one. "I'll order a pair for you. They'll be here before school."

Nodding, Harry pockets the roll of arguments (who consists mostly of some variation of _'I'm Harry Potter'_ and _'I do what I want'_ ) and sits down in one of the chairs opposite of Tom. "Good," he says. "Now over to the other thing I wanted to talk about."

Tom looks up from his notes again, this time with a frown. "What is it?" he asks, straightening up and putting down his quill. Well, it's nice to see he can take _some_ things seriously.

Harry staples his fingers together and tilts his head to give Tom a hard look over the brim of his glasses. "The full five weeks I have spent at Malfoy Manor," he begins, "as your right-hand, as your bonded, as your _partner_ – I have not once discussed with you your plans for the Wizarding World." This has been bothering him _a lot_ , especially the last week, after he regained the memories of his past life. If they are to be equal in this – or as equal as Tom ever gets – then Harry has to know the details.

"Oh," Tom says, his shoulders slouching slightly in relief. "Oh, well. My plans for the Wizarding World are, simple as they might sound, to secure us from the muggles and have the Ministry on my side as I do it."

"I get that," Harry nods, "but how do we get there?"

Tom pushes aside his notes and lean onto the desk, a thoughtful frown on his brow. "There are three major players in this," he begins slowly. "You, me, and my Death Eaters. You, as in the Boy-Who-Lived. Me, as in Voldemort the murderous mad-man; and my Death Eaters, as in the ones with political power." Harry nods to show he's following. " _Your_ job will be to first befriend the Minister and show him you're on his side. Later we will have someone posing as your squib friend – they will 'show you that the world is dangerous for them', and you will 'draw your own conclusions' from that. You will then tell the Minister about your concerns. Sort of soften him to the idea that muggles truly are dangerous. He will panic and worry about losing your support if he doesn't do anything about it, and therefore be far more open to the idea." He pauses, and at another nod from Harry, he takes a deep breath before continuing. " _Meanwhile,_ Death Eaters like Lucius will be talking to him from _their_ side, discussing how dangerous muggles are, the war between muggles, and generally, instead of looking at them like dirt, look at them like _armed_ dirt." Harry snorts, and Tom shoots him a quick grin. "I, on the other hand, will be creating havoc, have raids, attacks, and so on. This is both to throw Dumbledore off our trail, and also to keep my… _wilder_ Death Eaters in check. Do you understand?"

"Fully," Harry says, giving one hard nod. "Befriend Minister, have squib friend, meanwhile politics, armed dirt, attacking muggles." He raises an eyebrow. "That it?"

"More or less," Tom nods. "Glad to see you take initiative, Harry. Any news on the bond front?"

"None," Harry says, shaking his head. "Wormtail's working slower than ever, it seems. At this rate we'd find more if we set _Bella_ to do it."

Tom snorts; it's wide-spread knowledge that Bellatrix has forgotten how to read during her stay in Azkaban. "Oh, well," he sighs. "I suppose we'll find out about it sometime." He frowns, taps out a quick rhythm on his desk, and lights up. "About that. I actually had some matters I wished to address."

"By all means," Harry says, making a sideways cutting motion with his hand, "go ahead."

"Hogwarts," Tom says, tone serious as he leans forward again. "First of, I'll need to remove your disguise before term starts – for obvious reasons. I'll teach you how to cast it yourself later. Now, over to the important – I want you to make 'friends' in all of the houses."

"Why?"

"To make a show of your niceness, of course," Tom replies promptly. "It's considered naïve to have friends from all the houses, especially if that group of friends cannot co-exist peacefully by each other."

Harry frowns. "That's stupid," he offers flatly.

Tom shrugs. "I don't make the rules."

Shaking his head, Harry puts it aside. Yet another thing to be discussed later. "I already have friends in Ravenclaw," he muses. "Luna Lovegood. But I'm not on speaking terms with anyone in Hufflepuff – and certainly not Slytherin."

"Unless you can't exist peacefully with her, may I suggest Susan Bones?" Tom says.

"Bones?" Harry repeats, raising both eyebrows. "Why her?"

"Her aunt is on the Wizengamot, and if Severus and Lucius are to be trusted, Susan aspires to be a major political influence, as well," Tom explains. "Besides, she is a Light witch, firmly planted on Dumbledore's side."

Harry nods slowly. "It will do my reputation good and increase my reliability?" he guesses.

" _Very good, Harry_ ," Tom hisses. He's taken to praising Harry in parseltongue. The effect it has on Harry…

He preens, straightening a bit in his chair with a small smile. Then the smile slides right off again. "And what about Slytherin? That's sure to dirty my reputation again – no offence – and besides, no one in Slytherin will trust me."

Tom taps his chin and frowns. "I wonder…" he mutters.

Suddenly an idea hits Harry upside the head. "Wait!" he exclaims. "I need a contact within Hogwarts anyway; what if we tell Snape that "James" will be acting as a spy at school, while we reveal my identity to Malfoy? Will that work?"

Tom tilts his head to the side and stares silently at the roof for two brief moments. "Yes," he finally says. "Yes, I think it will. Draco will have to swear an oath, but…" He nods. "Yes, that will work. _Good thinking, Harry_."

Harry smiles. "Okay, but – I have _more_ to talk about, actually."

Tom stares at him for a moment before sighing. "Alright. What is it."

"Er," Harry says, the bravery and confidence of Harrison fading from his mind for a moment. "Well, uh… the bond requires physical intimacy, yeah?" At Tom's hesitant nod he warms up a bit. "I won't be able to have that while at Hogwarts."

"Ah." Tom taps his chin again. "Portkey, then. And a two-way mirror."

Harry blinks. "That was fast."

"I know my ways."

The corners of his mouth twitching in a smile, Harry shakes his head fondly. "Can you arrange that, then? I have no idea where to get either."

Tom nods absentmindedly as he reaches for a blank parchment and scribbles it down. After a short moment he hesitates, before shooting a quick look at one of his quills and nodding to himself.

"Tom?" Harry asks hesitantly.

Tom holds up a hand to shush him and reaches for a crow-feathered quill, the dark feathers shimmering in the shade of a quiet midnight sky. He mutters a few words, flicks his wand at the quill, hisses something, and then places the quill on the desk. "There," he says. "Portkey, going from right outside Hogwarts to this very room."

Harry stills.

He's – did he just – so –

Not only is the quill expensive-looking, the tip a beautiful silver with a small snake slithering up the side, but – but –

in his chest swells an unidentified emotion, threatening to crawl up through his throat and spill from his lips in a choked sob –

"Oh," Harry says. He reaches out, hand trembling, and closes his fingers around the portkey. "Thank you."

"The activation word is _safety_ ," Tom says, slipping into parseltongue for the last word. He shoots Harry a stern look. " _Don't_ lose it."

"I won't," Harry assures him. "Promise." He smiles.

Harry's Healer Robes arrive three days later – a pale, silk-and-cotton shirt with wide sleeves accompanied by a dark belt with several pouches tied to it, as well as a pair of tight, pale, cotton pants and tall, dark boots. The cape that follows is also of silk – although Tom, being considerate and possibly kind, has also bought the same pale cape in thick wool.

Harry pulls the robed to his chest and nearly cries in joy; it's been far too long since the last time he held robes like these.

Tom hands him a silver broch a few days later, inlaid with a detailed, golden snake and a simple emerald for its eye. "For the cape," Tom mutters, looking away from Harry. "Accept it or I'll hex you."

Harry would've accepted anyway.

Three days later, two weeks before school starts, and Snape and Malfoy – Severus and Draco – are pulled into the room usually used for Death Eater meetings. Tom stands at the front of the room, wearing his usual Voldemort disguise, while Harry is standing by his right side, new Healer Robes snug against his body.

"Severus," Voldemort says, dipping his head at Snape before turning to Malfoy, "and Draco," he adds, dipping his head in that direction as well. He receives a trembling bow in return. "We have summoned you here because you both hold valuable positions within Hogwarts."

Malfoy – _Draco_ whimpers. Voldemort gives him a long look, but when Harry elbows him in the side he tears his gaze away.

"James here," he says, acting as if the moment never happened, "will act as a spy for me. _No_ , Severus," he ads coldly, "there's no use to suspect the first years. He will not be among them."

Severus nods silently.

"I expect," Voldemort drawls loudly, bringing all attention back to him (Ha. As if it had ever been away), "that if you are to receive any orders from James, either by letter or vocally, you are to follow them. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Excellent," Voldemort hisses. "You are excused." Severus bows, and as he straightens, his gaze lingers on Draco. Voldemort raises an eyebrow and answers the silent question. "No, Draco shall stay."

Draco whimpers again.

Harry frowns, suddenly remembering that Draco's only fifteen, and the moment Severus is out the door he turns to Voldemort. "Go easy on him," he chides. "He's just a kid."

"I – " Draco splutters indignantly.

Harry interrupts him by shooting him a dark look. "That does not mean you can interrupt, Draco," he says coldly.

Draco nods hurriedly. "Y – yes, my Lords," he whispers, paling rapidly. "What – what do my Lords need of me?"

"Draco," Voldemort says, "what you now will see and hear is not to leave this room. You will have to swear on your magic that you will not re-tell this information to _anyone_ without James' or mine permission. Do you understand?" Draco nods, lower lip trembling and brows knitted together in a tight frown. "Then swear."

Draco fumbles for his wand, raising it into the air after a few unsteady moments. His whole arm is shaking. "I – I swear on my magic that I will not re-tell what I am about to see or hear to anyone without Lord James' or Lord V – Voldemort's permission," he stutters. The tip of his wand brightens for a moment before settling down to a faint glow.

"Hm," Harry says. "Beyond the slight stutter that went remarkably well." He turns to look at Voldemort, who's still staring intently at Draco, his eyes nearly glowing a bright red. "Oh, come _on_ , Tom," Harry groans. "Drop the disguise and stop terrorizing the boy, he's already sworn an oath."

Sighing, Voldemort snaps his fingers and turns into Tom.

Draco gapes.

"Oh, do pick up your jaw from the floor, boy," Tom snaps angrily at him. "We don't have the whole day."

"Y – yes, my Lord," Draco whispers, bowing again. "I'm sorry, my Lord."

"Now listen, Draco," Harry says, taking a step towards the trembling boy. Once upon a time he would've gloated at seeing his nemesis like this, cowering at his feet, but Harry isn't like that anymore. He can't see someone worthy of having dirt thrown at them, armed or not; he sees a boy struggling to survive in a shattering world. "What we need of you is to befriend me. Don't put sticks in my wheels. Don't go out of your way to make life hard for me. Listen to my orders. Trust me when I need you to. Do you understand?"

Draco doesn't look at him when he gives his reply. "Yes, my Lord," he whispers quietly.

Taking pity on him, Harry sighs, expression softening. "Don't worry, Draco," he reassures him, "I won't have you betray your friends or hurt someone."

The trembles quiet down a bit. "…thank you, my Lord."

"Now," Harry says, clapping his hands and turning to Tom, "would you be so kind as to key Draco in to my disguise, love?"

Tom makes a disgusted sound. "Don't _ever_ call me that again," he complains – but he does comply, pulling out his wand before stalking towards Draco. He then proceeds to tap the boy's temple, before moving over to Harry and gently tapping his scar.

"Really?" Harry asks, disbelief rolling over his tongue, just as Draco yelps and stumbles away from him. "You had to go and key it into my _scar_?"

Tom shrugs.

"But – " Draco cries. "But – Potter – isn't – "

"That's _Lord_ Potter for you, Draco," Harry says sweetly. "Get over your shock, please. We don't have the time for that. Do you _understand_ , Draco? _Befriend_ me."

Draco looks back at him, mouth opening and closing as he searches for words, before he finally shuts it and nods tightly. "Fine," he mutters.

Tom clears his throat pointedly.

Draco startles. "I – I mean," he scrambles to add. "Y – _yes_ , my – my Lord."

There's a fire burning in his eyes – a somewhat confused fire, fair enough, but still a fire. But hey, as long as he follows orders…

"You're dismissed, Draco," Tom says. "Leave."

Draco nearly runs out of the room.

Once the door shuts behind him, Harry turns to Tom and grins. "Have a problem with being called love, hm?" he asks sweetly as he walks over to him. Before Tom can give a proper response, Harry leans into him and wraps his arms around his torso.

Letting out a long, quiet hum of pleasure, Harry smiles into Tom's chest. It's nice, he supposes, to have someone ready to offer him comfort – even if it is only physical. It's something he's lacked this entire life and most of his last; being touch-starved isn't exactly something he longs for.

Tom doesn't give him any reply beyond a dark grumble and pulls Harry closer, placing his cheek on top of his head with a small, disgruntled sigh.

"The Death Eaters are growing restless."

Harry looks up from his book to give the fidgeting Tom a confused look. "Restless?" he repeats. "Elaborate."

Tom picks at his sleeve. Pause. "There hasn't been a raid or attack since my return," he says slowly, "they, ah… they want action."

"What are you planning to do about it?" Harry asks, closing the book and raising both eyebrows. This is all news for him – and before the spell, he probably would've objected. Objected to the torture, to the murders, to the sick joy the Death Eaters find in it… but, honestly, why should he bother? Nothing he says will stop it, and anyway, it isn't like those muggles matter to him.

"I was thinking about arranging an attack on a muggle/wizard village," Tom says, slightly-nervously looking down at his feet instead of Harry.

Odd. He usually doesn't display feelings other than anger, amusement and curiosity. Something's wrong.

"Then by all means," Harry shrugs, "go ahead; I won't stop you."

"I'll be there," Tom ads hurriedly, and it clicks.

He wants Harry to be worried.

Touching.

"I expect you will be careful, of course," Harry says, matter-of-factly, before re-opening his book and turning to it. "Or so help me, Tom, I will skin you alive."

Tom's shoulders slump a bit in relief, and Harry smirks into his book. So he was right, then. "Yes, dear," he mutters mockingly.

"Tom," Harry growls dangerously, not looking up from his book. After a pause of silence he sighs. "You don't have any Horcruxes anymore. Remember that."

"I could always create new ones," Tom muses lightly.

"Absolutely the fuck not," Harry grunts, now looking up at Tom with a glare. "We do _not_ want a repeat of the First War. Horcruxes are addicting, Tom. You _won't_ be meddling around in that again. I won't allow you."

"Fine," Tom grumbles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "I'll give you more information about the attack when I have it sorted out."

"Good," Harry says. He returns to his book and Tom exits the library.

Harry smiles.

Step. Step. Step.

Turn.

Step, step, step.

Turn.

Stepstepstep _turn_.

The pacing quickens again, and Harry digs his hands into his hair with a quiet growl. Draco, who's standing over by the door, gives him an uncertain look.

"I'm sure they'll be fine," he drawls sarcastically. When Harry spins around and shoots daggers at him he slinks back against the wall. "My Lord," he adds hurriedly.

"You don't understand," Harry says, again turning to continue the pacing. "Tom's never been gone this long before." The bond is complaining – and quite loudly, as well. Hopefully it won't be this hard when he goes to Hogwarts – there he won't have to be afraid of Tom's well-being every second of every minute.

Draco frowns. "It's… it's just been three hours," he reminds him, confusion etched into his voice.

"And that's three hours too much," Harry mutters absentmindedly.

Turn.

Suddenly, a loud bell in the neighboring room goes off. Harry's eyes widen at the signal of someone apparating in. He draws his wand, shoves Draco aside and stalks into the room, healer robes snapping around his ankles.

There's a group of maybe twenty Death Eaters there, some sitting, some standing, some sprawled across the floor and groaning. Many of them look hurt in some way or another, and while Harry worries for a moment, his gaze lands on Tom-as-Voldemort and the worry is cut short.

He's leaning against one wall, clutching his arm against his chest with a vice-like grip – and there's blood oozing out between his fingers.

"Fuck," Harry says, and then he runs. He's by Tom's side – he can't think of him like Voldemort when he's hurt like this; can't insult him in that way – within seconds, hands covering his and bodies pressed close, worry at the back of his tongue like acid. "Tom," he says, his breath rushed in the fruitless attempt at appearing calm, "Tom, look at me. What happened?"

"Muggle," Tom hisses. The knuckles around his wound have gone white. "Gun."

Harry's blood turns to ice. "Just your arm?" he whispers. "Please tell me it's just your arm."

Tom nods, expression tight with pain. "Hurts," he whispers. "Harry…"

"Shh," Harry breathes, tapping Tom's good hand gently. "Let go, please." Tom pries his own fingers off his arm, the move sluggish and strained – but he listens to Harry, at least, so most of his good sense should still be there. "There you go," Harry mutters soothingly, grabbing the bloodied hand and pressing his lips to Tom's fingers. "Now, I'll clean this real quick," he says, peering at the bullet-wound without letting go of his hand. "Then I'll patch you up. Okay?"

Tom nods mutely. Harry draws his wand slowly, without looking away from the wound, and after a quick round of inspection spells he concludes that there's nothing terribly dangerous – although it probably hurts like hell, and if not treated correctly, the wound might get an infection. Well, good thing Harry is equipped for treating it correctly.

A few moments later, a muffled hiss from Tom, and his arm is as good as new.

"…thank you," he whispers. Harry tilts his head back and meets his dark gaze. He's been holding Tom's hand throughout all of this, and now their fingers tangle together.

Harry smiles. "Healer," he breathes, a quiet reminder, before he steps away from Tom. He misses the warmth immediately, the bond giving a small, painful twinge – but there are others who need him. He's pretty sure he saw Bellatrix bleeding.

The next few minutes he flutters back and forth between the hurt Death Eaters like a butterfly between flowers, crouching beside them, asking where it hurts and what happened, inspecting and reassuring and patting the backs of their hands. It doesn't matter who they are or what their history with him is – he's a _Healer_ , for Merlin's sake. He _heals_ , and they're _hurt_.

There are many gazes that linger on him as he moves, surprised looks and suspicious glints that fade when he smiles at them. He's not unaware of it. He just doesn't care.

Wormtail, the pitiful excuse of a man, trembles when Harry sits down by him – but Harry's calm voice and soothing words soon warm him up, and the gratitude in his eyes does not go unnoticed by Harry.

When there are no more Death Eaters to be healed, they all look at him in a new light. Draco is standing by the door still, biting his lip and frowning as the scene unfolds. When Harry steps by him, Tom in tow, he bows and mutters, "My Lord."

It isn't directed at Tom.

The immediate moment the doors close behind them, Tom snaps his fingers and his disguise melts away. Harry leans into his side. All those Healing charms have tired him out – he isn't used to Healing that many at a time, and not someone who needs it that badly. He'd been a Healer at _Hogwarts_ , for Merlin's sake. The job required it of him, certainly, but there was rarely the need for healing something as severe as what the Death Eaters had gotten themselves into.

Tom looks down at him, lips twitching in a small smile as he wraps his arm around his shoulders.

"I'm sleeping with you tonight," Harry says, matter-of-factly.

Tom freezes, the small smile slipping instantly. "What are you – "

"In your _bed_ , you idiot," Harry sighs exasperatedly. "The bond. I'm tired. You've been hurt. It's better to be with you than without."

He knows he doesn't make much sense, but he's tired, his feet dragging behind him as he walks, and Tom isn't much better. He's probably been handing out curses like candy tonight, and that's just as straining as healing.

They both deserve the rest.

Tom sighs and resumes walking. "Fine," he says.

That night Harry sleeps in Tom's arms, cuddled up to the comforting warmth, and although he's tired and his nerves frayed, he hasn't been more comfortable since before he died.

He knows Tom feels the same way, and drifts to sleep with a smile.

Harry is woken up the next day by frustrated hooting. Goddamnit – post? At this hour? God, he's still so tired – he _really_ shouldn't have performed all those spells without any forethought.

Groaning quietly to himself he turns his head away from the sound. His cheek meets with warm skin.

He freezes.

His arms are around someone's very _warm_ torso.

Someone's very _warm_ arm is slung around his shoulder.

Tom.

He relaxes.

"Are you going to get that?"

Oh. He's awake.

"Nnooo," Harry mumbles, the word muffled by Tom's chest. "Tired. Wanna sleep."

"Be that as it might," Tom says. There's a smile in his voice. "I'm awake and the blasted owl is bothering me."

"Then get it," Harry suggests cheekily.

"Can't," Tom says, and shrugs. "You're on me."

Harry grunts.

The owl screeches.

" _Fine_ ," Harry mutters, pulling his arms away from Tom and rolling off him. "I'll get it."

Half a minute later the owl is gone, Harry is back in the bed, and Tom is wrapping his arms around his waist.

The thick envelope has a Hogwarts crest on it.

"About damn time," Harry mutters. "And honestly," he adds, "I don't get why it didn't come over to the bed and drop it off."

"Wards," Tom replies promptly. "I don't want to be interrupted while I sleep."

Harry makes a noncommittal sound, settles back into Tom's embrace, and opens the letter. Nothing unusual about it – just the usual mumbo jumbo and a list from McGonagall.

He's been good at not letting out too much, then. Hermione's letters have become less pestering, praise the Lord.

"Hm," Tom says, peering over his shoulder. His breath is warm against Harry's neck. The bond twinges, Harry's eyes widen as a long-drawn shiver runs down his spine, and then Tom pulls back. Oh shit. That's bad. "We'll have to go shopping, then."

"D'chu think Draco's gotten a letter as well?" Harry asks. He very pointedly Does Not React when Tom begins to play with his hair. "Think we could go together?"

"You and Draco?" Tom asks. It sounds like he's raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah. And you," Harry adds. "I'd like to go with you."

Tom stills, fingers combing through Harry's hair coming to a stop. There's a long pause, and when he resumes stroking his hair, his fingers are trembling. "…alright," he finally says. "I'll age myself to look younger."

"Add blond hair," Harry suggests. "If someone asks we can say you're a distant relative of the Malfoys."

"And why are you in Diagon Alley with the Malfoys?" Tom asks. He sounds like he's raising an eyebrow again. His fingers keep carding through Harry's hair.

Harry tilts his head with a pleased sigh. The bond thrums through him, leaving a soft tingling sensation behind. Strange, that he can feel it growing stronger. Even stranger that he's not complaining.

"Hmm…" he murmurs. "Perhaps… ah. Last year, Draco and I made friends in the shadows. This summer he was worried for my mental health because of Cedric and had Lucius kidnap me. I was protected by very powerful wards, making it impossible for me to tell anyone about my location."

Tom hums, a pleased sound that rumbles through his throat. Harry, who's head is resting on his shoulder, feels the vibration and shivers again. " _Good thinking_ ," Tom purrs, his breath hot against Harry's skin, and oh, oh no. He really shouldn't be reacting like this, but – "And I were visiting, yes?" Harry gives a distant mutter and tilts his head back, resting it fully on Tom's shoulder and closing his eyes to bask in the glorious sensation. "A distant Malfoy relative… I wonder if we can pull it off as me being a squib, you turning Draco to the Light and Draco convincing Lucius to invite "me" over, to understand me better…"

What is he talking about? Oh, God, this is distracting –

"I'll inform Lucius about our plan, then," Tom muses. "Now, Harry – I'm very thankful for you healing my arm yesterday, but I don't need you to heal it _again_. Get off me before it falls of for lack of blood."

Huh? Oh!

Harry jumps away from Tom, who raises his arm and shakes it with a wince. "I can't feel my fingers," he complains good-naturedly.

"Oh, do shut up," Harry says, determined to ignore the blush on his cheeks. "It's not that bad."

Tom scowls at him, but can't hold the mask for long before he snorts and looks away.

It's a bit weird, Harry has to admit. Being back in Diagon Alley after everything that's happened this summer… it makes his skin itch to be back in such a normal place. Honestly – it's just been eight weeks, and he's found out he's bonded to the Dark Lord, struck up a friendship with said Dark Lord, re-gained memories from his past life, healed a dozen Death Eaters, made friends with said Death Eaters… oh, and not to mention that he's allied to the _Dark Lord_.

God. It's not surprising that it's weird being back.

He hopes he won't run into Hermione.

Tom, who's magically dyed his hair a pale blond and brightened his eyes, is squinting down at a scroll of parchment. "You two got robes?" he says, shooting Harry a quick look.

"Yes," Harry says, a skip in his step. It might be weird to be back, but God is it great to be outside of the manor.

"Y – yes, my Lord." Draco looks distinctively freaked out to be shopping with his arch-nemesis and the Dark Lord.

"Aw, Draco, none of that," Harry coos. "We're just friends! Yeah?"

Draco looks straight-up pained now. "…right," he says. "Harry."

"That's the spirit!" Harry beams. "I think we really just need to focus on books, Tom," he says. "And maybe parchment," he adds thoughtfully.

"I – I need a new set of quills," Draco says timidly. "And, ah, a new cauldron."

"What happened to the last one?" Harry asks, throwing a surprised look over his shoulder.

Draco rubs his shoulder. "Potions accident," he mutters.

"Hm," Tom says. "We should stop by Flourish and Blotts, Harry. I know of a few books you'd probably like."

"Really?" Harry asks, pleased happiness shining through his voice. "They have books on Dark Magic there?"

He just _knows_ that Draco is close to crying now.

"I was thinking more of Healing," Tom replies drily. "You know a lot of healing techniques from the Founders' era, but close to nothing from modern times."

"Hm," Harry says, tilting his head and tapping his chin.

Wait. Fuck. That's a thing he's picked up from Tom.

He stops tapping.

"You're right, we should stop by Flourish and Blotts," he nods. "Anything else?"

Tom squints at a tall witch walking by. Really, sometimes his suspicion can go too far. "I thought of buying you a snake," he says absentmindedly.

Harry stops. Draco, not prepared for the sudden decrease in pace, crashes into his back before stumbling back. "A snake?" Harry whispers. His hands tingle. "A – a snake."

"Yes," Tom says, coming to a stop as well. He turns to give him a slightly worried look. It's strange, to see it coming from behind bright bangs and bright eyes, but it's the same spark in those eyes that it's always been. "Shouldn't I have?" Tom asks quietly, taking a step closer.

"I – " Harry tries. His mouth has gone dry, he can't really – think, he can't – "Tom, I – " He swallows. Swallows again. "Thank you. So much."

Tom softens. "You're welcome," he says softly. "You accept?"

Purely on instinct, Harry's hand shoots up to the base of his throat, where the broch Tom had gifted him with usually sits. " _Yes_ ," he breathes. "Damn it, Tom, _yes_."

Tom grins at him, dips his head, and continues to walk.

Harry and Draco continue to walk as well, Harry somehow ending up walking next to Draco, rather than Tom.

The boy gives him a strange look. "Are you – are you usually like this?"

"Yes," Harry says. He smiles. "We are."

Harry decides, fifteen minutes later, that life hates him. They're walking past Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Harry chatting happily with Tom and a somewhat distraught Draco following behind, when –

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"

Harry, Tom and Draco all collectively freeze.

Harry closes his eyes. "Oh no."

"Stay strong," Tom whispers, only half-joking, as he takes a step back.

Wincing, Harry turns around to face his friends. "…hey, Hermione!" he greets. "Oh, and Ron, too!" But no Neville. Huh. Wonder where he is – probably holed up with his grandmother somewhere.

Hermione is glaring at him, hands planted firmly on her hips. Ron sits at the table next to her, ears red and eyes wide. "Where have you _been_?" Hermione shrieks. "We've been terribly worried about you, and so help me, if you _don't_ have a good explanation – !"

"Well," Harry says, poking his index fingers together and kicking the ground nervously. "I think you might need to get a larger table. The story is long."

First now does Ron notice the two blondes behind Harry. "Malfoy!" he growls. "And – whoever you are – what are _you_ doing here?"

Draco shoots Tom an uncertain look, but when he only waves his hand dismissively (and discretely, of course, he's a _Slytherin_ ) in the air, the boy loosens up and sneers at Ron. "I could ask the same for you, Weasel."

" _Draco_ ," Harry moans. "And _you_ as well, Thomas! _Please_ don't make this harder than necessary – and Ron, that's included in my story!" He gives them all a slightly-desperate look. "Will you all please calm down?" he begs.

Tom shrugs and goes for one of the nearby chairs. "Fine by me," he says. Ron gapes at him – and then he turns the gape to Harry, and then to Draco, when the both of them sit down as well, Harry being immensely grateful for Tom relenting.

Hermione gives Harry a very hard look, but thankfully decides to sit down opposite of him, rather than to continue yelling. "Well?" she inquires, aggressively raising an eyebrow. "I expect this to be good."

Drawing a deep breath, Harry nods. "It… it all started at the beginning of last year…"

Towards the end of Harry's tale – a tale about friendship, redemption, finding hope in dark places, and a trust that would shock even Dumbledore – both Hermione and Ron are speechless. Well, Ron is speechless. Hermione seems to be trying to get out some sort of word. Or sound.

"I – " she says, before closing her mouth and frowning. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Harry looks down, forcefully pulling up the part of him that is _solely_ Harry Potter. It's harder now, than it was a few days prior – with every minute that passes Harry and Harrison merge more and more together, but – he can still _somewhat_ tell where one ends and the other begins… though it won't last long, that's for damned sure.

"I… I was so afraid you'd ditch me…" he says quietly. "And, to be fair, neither of you talked much to me, anyway. I didn't feel like I could trust you, and… and Draco was there for me…"

Both Hermione and Ron look uncomfortable at that. "Listen, mate, I'm really sorry about that," Ron says. The uncomfortable look increases.

"I've forgiven you," Harry hurries to assure him. True, as he'd forgotten why he was so hurt in the first place during the two weeks he'd spent as a blabbering mess. "Still, I was hurting at the time, and… it didn't seem like you'd be very accepting."

Tears well up in Hermione's eyes. "I'm so, so sorry, Harry," she whispers. "I wish I – "

"You're _forgiven_ ," Harry says. "Please. Just – try and understand now, yeah?"

"Of course," Hermione says, nodding fervently.

Ron looks over at Draco with a frown. Dread knots in Harry's gut. _Please don't start a fight_ , he begs. _Please_. "So I guess you aren't that bad, Malfoy," he says, scratching at the back of his neck.

Harry kicks Draco's leg when he doesn't give an immediate reply. "Same to you, Wease – ly," Draco says, nodding tightly.

Probably sensing an oncoming slaughter, Hermione decides to put a stop to that particular conversation. "You're buying supplies for Hogwarts?" she asks, directed at Harry and Draco.

"Yeah," Harry says. "Actually… we aren't quite finished yet. Can we continue?"

"Oh," Hermione says. "Well, we're almost done… we were on our way home, actually…"

"He meant alone, Granger," Tom says drily.

"Oh!" Hermione repeats. "Uhm…" She looks distinctively uncomfortable with leaving now, but, after a pregnant pause where she bites her lip, she thankfully sighs and gives in. "Alright, fine. I'll… we'll see you two at the Express, then."

Nodding, Harry stands up. Tom follows instantly after, quickly followed by Draco. "See you there," Harry says. He offers them a warm smile before walking back into the street.

They walk approximately twenty feet before Harry leans into Tom, buries his face in his shoulder, and screams.

He pulls back and continues to walk, acting for the world as if he hasn't just screamed into the Dark Lord's shoulder, while ignoring the exasperated (Tom) and terrified (Draco) looks following him in his wake.

Harry crushes his face up against the window of the shop. "She's beautiful," he breathes, his breath materializing on the glass pane in the form of fog.

The 'she' in question is a snake. A relatively small snake, barely the length of Harry's arm and just as thick as three of his fingers. Certainly the match for a thousand year old basilisk. Her scales are rough, though – sharp, black-tipped spikes. She looks utterly terrifying.

Harry loves her.

"Well then," Tom says, stepping by him and towards the door. "I'll buy it to you."

Harry can't muster the strength to speak a single thank you – not even as his new pet wraps herself around his arm within moments of meeting him. " _Hello, sweetie_ ," he hisses quietly.

" _Hello. I'm keeping you_."

Harry laughs. " _My name's Harry."_

 _"_ _You may call me Athie._ "

Harry raises his arm a bit, and Athie slithers closer and headbutts his forehead.

" _Yes_ ," she mutters. " _I'm definitely keeping you_."

Turning to Tom to give him a blending smile, Harry nods happily. "I am ready for Hogwarts."

Tom smiles back. "Good luck," he offers. "You'll need it."

Harry doesn't doubt that one second.


	6. Chapter 6

The sunlight rests lazily in the windowsill of Harry's room as he packs the last of his belongings into a trunk. He smiles fondly and pats both his Death Eater and Healer robes. They'll be staying here, on his bed, as he won't find any use for them in Hogwarts.

The quill-portkey Tom gave him rests in his pocket, along with the silver broch and a two-way mirror.

" _You must be finished soon_ ," Athie hisses exasperatedly. She's curled up on Harry's pillow, where she's been staying ever since he woke up. " _This place smells_."

" _You just want to see new places,_ " Harry replies amusedly without looking up from the trunk. He closes it, locks the hatch, and casts a shrinking charm on it before stuffing it in his pocket. " _But yes, I am ready. Coming?_ " He places his hand on the pillow, and with a disgruntled hiss, Athie slithers up his arm. She's just slender enough to be undetectable if Harry's wearing school robes – and if he ever has to wear something else, she can just as easily be hidden in a satchel.

Tugging his robes down over his arm, Harry exits his room and makes for the library. There's a fireplace connected to the Floo network in one of the sitting areas, and Tom's waiting for Harry there.

The trek to the library is short and uneventful, two Death Eaters bowing at him as he passes being the most interesting thing happening. "Are you ready?" Tom asks, when Harry comes to a stop in front of him.

"Ready as I'll ever be, Tom," Harry chirps with a grin.

"You have the portkey?" Tom asks anxiously. Harry pulls the quill out of his pocket. "Mirror?" Rolling his eyes, Harry pulls out the mirror from his other pocket. "Snake?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Tom," Harry sighs. "I'm good to go. I've been at Hogwarts before. Calm your tits."

Tom grimaces. "I will do no such thing," he huffs. Then he sighs. "Well, of you go, then," he mutters. He holds out a pouch made from woven Acromantula silk.

"Show off," Harry mutters. He hides a grin and takes the offered Floo powder. "Disguise, Tom."

Tom startles, but clears his throat quickly and taps Harry's scar with his wand.

"Thanks," Harry beams cheerily, standing up on his tip-toes to press a mocking kiss to Tom's cheek before going to stand in the fireplace. "Platform Nine and Three Quarters," he says, throwing a pinch of the green powder into the fire without giving Tom the time to react to the surprise kiss.

A few sickening turns later and he steps out into the hustle of the Platform. Athie hisses uncomfortably from his arm, and he nudges her gently to remind her to stay quiet. Squinting, Harry peers into the crowd to see if he can spot anyone he recognizes – and ah, yes. Draco is standing over by his parents, looking for all the world as if he's just chatting with them – but Harry knows better.

He makes his way through the crowd. "Hey, Draco!" he calls. The boy turns to glance at him, a relieved look flitting across his features before he schools them. "Been waiting long?"

"No, not at all," Draco says. He turns to Lucius and nods. "Father." Then to Narcissa. "Mother. I'll send you letters."

Lucius nods back. Narcissa offers him a soft smile.

"Well, shall we go?" Draco asks of Harry, who nods and begins to make his way over to the train. Draco hurries to catch up with him. "Am I still sitting with you?" he mutters quietly.

"Yes," Harry says. "Wonderful if you'd include some of your minions."

"They're not – " Draco begins, looking uncomfortable.

"Friends, then," Harry says, giving an unbothered shrug. "Not much of a difference."

Draco gives him a calculating look, but shakes his head and lets it go.

Harry makes his way to his friends' carriage quickly, Draco following behind. Crabbe and Goyle are hot at their heels, which isn't that surprising, really, but still manages to draw many shocked gazes. When Harry enters the carriage his wand points him to, he's met by two smiling faces, two shocked, and one serene.

"Hermione, Ron," Harry greets, "Neville, Ginny, Luna."

Hermione scoots over to make space for Harry. Ron, looking distinctively uncomfortable, makes space for Crabbe. Still looking confused but not too terribly shocked, Neville follows his friends' examples and lets Goyle sit next to him. Draco manages to squeeze in next to Luna and the window.

The first few moments are spent in an uncomfortable silence, only broken by Luna's quiet humming as she reads the Quibbler.

"So…" Neville finally says. All eyes turn to him. "Would someone please explain why Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle are in our compartment with us?"

"Why, of course," Harry says. "Hermione?"

Hermione splutters, turning wide eyes on him. "Me?" she exclaims. "Why _me_?"

"I don't trust Ron," Harry admits. "Maybe Draco would like to explain?"

Ginny and Neville exchange gazes, both of them mouthing ' _Draco'_ with surprised looks.

Draco makes a pained expression, but delves into the story.

When he's done, they're already half-way to Hogwarts.

"Wow," Neville says. He looks decidedly more comfortable now than he did in the beginning of the ride. "That's one big mess if I've ever seen one."

Harry shrugs. "Since we were outed to Hermione and Ron a few days ago, we had a quick talk and decided to come out in the open about it."

"What about Dumbledore?" Ginny asks, a worried frown etched into her forehead. "He's been worried sick about you."

"I sent a letter with Hedwig this morning," Harry explains. "Mr. Malfoy broke the wards he's kept around me since the beginning of summer, so I was finally able to explain stuff over written word."

"Oh," Ginny says. She doesn't stop frowning. "Do you think he'll accept that?"

 _Considering he loves giving people second chances? Heck yeah._ "He doesn't have much of a choice, now, does he?" Harry says. "I just hope he won't be too mad."

Hermione gives him a soft look. "Oh, he won't, Harry," she assures him. "I think he'll be very happy for you. And you, too, Mal – Draco," she adds, turning the soft look on Draco.

"…thank you," Draco says.

It sounds genuine.

Harry stares. Everything has been going just fine, everyone's coming along just perfectly, no one has even died yet – and then he'd stepped over to the carriages and come face to face with a winged beast.

Thin, dark leather is pulled tight over fragile bones and pale, milky eyes, the horse-like creature giving off an ominous yet calm aura..

Harry swallows.

"Wh – what's that?" he asks. Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Neville all look confused. Crabbe and Goyle don't even react, while Draco gives Harry a scrutinizing look. Luna doesn't appear affected beyond some light amusement.

"Thestrals," she says lightly.

"Only people who have seen death can see them," Draco explains softly. Hermione looks alarmed. Neville pales a little.

"-oh," Harry breathes. He takes a step closer. "Cedric," he concludes. And if he hadn't been enough, the four deaths he'd seen after the summer began would probably have helped, as well. The thestral huffs, a puff of warm breath in the cold autumn night.

Harry puts a hand to its muzzle and smiles.

So this is what death looks like.

"Let's get in," Ginny pleads, looking distinctively disturbed.

Harry steps away and gives her a smile meant to calm. He's practiced it in the mirror. "Sure," he offers lightly. "Let's go."

Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny, and Harry all scamper into one of the carriages. There's not space for more, so Draco and his minions make their way to the next one. Once the six students sit down, Neville frowns. "I wonder where Hagrid is," he says.

"He's prolly just sick or something," Ron shrugs.

Hermione frowns as well. "Maybe," she sighs. "I certainly hope so."

Harry blinks. Is Hagrid missing? That's… that's something he probably should've noticed. Athie grumbles something, but thankfully Luna decided to speak up just then, so no one heard Harry's impatient snake.

Maybe he shouldn't have accepted her. God knows how people will react when they find out he's got a snake.

Harry notices, when they enter the Great Hall, that Hagrid is missing from the Head Table. He feels a twinge of worry, but that's nothing compared to Hermione, Ron, and Neville's concerned expressions. "Relax," Harry mutters, as they sit down and wait for the first years to be sorted. "He's fine. Dumbledore knows we care for him; he would've told us if something happened."

Hermione gives him a surprised look. Why? Is she surprised he can think for himself? She opens her mouth and draws a breath, but just before she can speak, Dumbledore begins his yearly preach.

Harry knows that the man only repeats the same rubbish every year, and so he only bothers to listen with half-and-ear –

Until Dumbledore's interrupted by a stocky woman clad in glaring pink.

Harry stares intently at her as she speaks. She's certainly not very pretty to look at, but her voice and stance show that she's very sure of herself and her position. As her speech unfolds and Harry realizes more and more of what she's saying, he understands why.

"Well, that was a load of rubbish," Neville mutters afterward.

"No," Harry says, frowning lightly. "Didn't you listen at all?"

Again Hermione shoots him a surprised look. "What did she say, Harry?" she asks, leaning forward with a glint in her eye.

Subtle, Hermione. Really, double-checking if he really was paying attention? How Slytherin of her. "The Ministry is interfering in Hogwarts," Harry says. He frowns. "Really, Hermione? I thought you, of all people, would understand as much."

Hermione flushes. "No, that's not – I didn't – "

"Anyway," Harry says, leaving Hermione to be flustered. "I'm excited to see what the Ministry has to offer Hogwarts." He frowns as he says it, to give the others a feeling that he doesn't like this one bit.

Honestly, it isn't that bad – for him, that is. He's supposed to get into the Minister's good books, and if this woman is operating on his behalf, then he should probably stay on her good side. Even if she looks like a toad and has the most horrible fashion sense he's ever seen – including the time his sister had bought him those horrible robes from Spain.

Harry grins at the memory of his old life and risks a look at the Headmaster. After a few short moments, the man turns his head and notices Harry staring at him. Harry offers him a tentative wave, which the old fool returns warmly, before raising his cup in a small toast and turning away.

Excellent. He's accepted the story.

When Dumbledore calls it a night, Harry loses sight of Neville after a few moments within the bustle of the tired crowd. Not thinking too much about it, Harry makes his way through Gryffindor Tower. When he arrives at the dormitory, Seamus and Dean are the only ones already there. They're in the process of hanging posters all over the walls when Harry enters. They'd been talking to each other, chatting merrily about something or another, but the moment Harry steps into the room they grow suspiciously quiet.

"Hey," Harry greets, pulling his trunk out of his pocket and enlarging it with a tap of his wand.

"Hi, Harry," Dean replies. He sounds cheery. Too cheery. "Good holiday?"

"It was great," Harry says, throwing an enthusiastic smile over his shoulder. "Yours?"

"Yeah, it was okay," Dean chuckles. "Better than Seamus', anyway."

Harry raises an eyebrow and turns around. "Oh? What happened?"

Seamus hesitates, his hand lingering on his poster for a moment before he replies. "Me mam didn't want me to come back."

Harry rakes his eyes over his turned back; notices the tenseness in his shoulders, the guilt in his voice, the elbows pressed tightly against his sides. "Why?" he asks softly.

"…well, because of you," Seamus admits. He turns away from his poster, but still doesn't look at Harry.

Ah. He'd known this would be coming up. "It's – it's the Prophet, isn't it?" Harry says. Seamus startles a bit, but otherwise doesn't react, and Harry sighs. "Voldemort isn't back," he says firmly. The reaction is immediate; Seamus twirls around, Dean's eyes widen, and even Athie hisses from within Harry's robes. "Cedric's d - death was a horrible accident in the maze. Dumbledore is the one who has far too much trust in his students." Good, Harry, good – stumble in your words, it makes you seem nervous and emotional.

Seamus gapes. "But – but why did you say – "

Harry grimaces. "Well, er… I realized during summer that I'd walked through some hallucination-ish fog," he admits sheepishly, rubbing his shoulder and looking down at his feet. "I owled Dumbledore about it, but he said that we should still tread with caution or some rubbish like that."

He's playing a dangerous game, he knows. He didn't owl Dumbledore. If Seamus or Dean goes to him about it, or start spreading rumors that he eventually hears about… but they're not very gossipy-people. Hopefully they won't make this any harder than it already is.

"So – so you're not – you don't – "

Harry shakes his head. "Nah, if anyone's barmy, it's the Headmaster," he says dismissively. "Feel free to tell your mam that."

Seamus tries to hide it, but Harry can easily see that he slumps over in relief. Obviously this has been weighing him down quite a lot. "Well, if that's all," Harry says cheerily, wishing to give him and Dean a bit of privacy, "I'm going to bed."

Seamus nods absentmindedly, a light shining in his eyes, and with a small headshake, Harry crawls into his bed and closes his hangings. He casts a sticking charm on said hangings, followed quickly by a slightly overpowered _mufflatio_.

Without further ado Harry tugs of his outer robes, lets Athie slither over his bed, and fishes out his two-way mirror.

"Tom," he calls calmly.

Only a few seconds pass before the surface of the mirror ripples, reflecting the light like water under a crescent moon, and then Tom's face appears in it. "Harry," he greets, dipping his head politely. "How was the trip?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Cut the formality, Tom," he sighs. "The Ministry is interfering at Hogwarts, sending a woman to work as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."

Tom blinks. "Oh," he says. "Well. That's certainly nice."

Harry barks a laugh. "I absolutely despise her," he informs courtly, "but she's acting on behalf of Fudge, so…"

Tom gives him a stern look. "Get in her good books, Harry," he orders, "no matter what it takes."

"Yes, dear," Harry mutters mockingly.

They lapse into a silent that aches, both of them losing the faintly joking air. The bond twinges, but Harry barely notices it, buried under his own longing as it is. He sighs, absentmindedly dragging one finger down the face of the mirror.

Tom, noticing this, softens further. "You have the portkey," he offers gently. "If it gets too bad…"

"Yeah," Harry says quietly. He nods and pulls back his hand. The problem is that it isn't even the bond. It's Harry. "Yeah. I know."

Tom nods tightly and disappears from the mirror.

Harry stares at his own reflection for a few minutes, hear trembling at the sad shadow pulled flush over his features. Finally he sighs, stuffs the mirror under his pillow, and tucks himself to bed. Athie slithers up to him and cuddles into his chest.

" _Problems do not solve themselves, hatchling,"_ she informs him. It's the gentlest Harry's ever heard her before. " _I expect you to solve this one yourself."_ Ah, there the sharpness is.

" _I don't know if I can_ ," Harry whispers. He feels younger and smaller than he's done in years, wraps his arms around his torso, and screws his eyes shut.

The bond twinges. Again. It is overshadowed by Harry's own emotions. Again.

Athie sighs softly and rubs her face against his shoulder. Harry, thankful for what little comfort he can get, hisses a quiet thank you and goes to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry wakes early the next morning, lying on his back in the bed and blinking up at the deep red roof of the Gryffindor Tower. There's a hollow feeling echoing in his chest, a fragment remaining from last night, but he grits his teeth, pushes it forcefully away, and rolls out of bed.

He gets dressed, tip-toes down the stairs, and settles into the Gryffindor Common room without checking the time. The fire's dead, the sky outside just starting to brighten from deep blue to a shade looking more like dirtied iron, and yet… he knows he won't be able to fall asleep again.

Pulling out a parchment and a quill, he begins to write the letter to the Minister. He's been planning this for some time and knows, more or less, what to say (mostly a variation of _Dumbledore's barmy, Lord Voldemort isn't back, I'm on your side_ ), so the actual writing goes easy.

So, his mind is free to wander.

He misses Tom.

It's been _one day_ , less than 24 hours, and he misses the blasted git. It's not even the bond this time; no, _that_ had quieted down five days before Harry's departing from Malfoy Manor, and will probably not require attention before towards the end of the week.

So. _Harry_ misses _Tom_. It's not the bond missing its bonded. Not anymore.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

Hermione, Ron, and Neville all make their way over to him as they, one by one, wake up and enter the common room. Hermione, who comes first, looks surprised at seeing him up. Neville, the second, doesn't react, and Ron, the last, squints at him suspiciously before shrugging and moving on.

Harry watches as Hermione throws a fit over the Twins' experimenting and makes a mental note to talk to them later about buying some joke products. The Death Eater meetings are terribly boring, _honestly_. If he can spice them up with some pranks, that would be awesome. Tom will probably be mad, but hey, anything to have the meetings easier to get through!

He joins in some mindless chit-chatter between Hermione, Ron, and Neville as they enter the Great Hall. As the four of them make their way over to the Gryffindor table, Harry accidentally catches Draco's gaze. He offers him a nod as he sits down, smirking smugly when he gets one in return.

He doesn't have much time to do much else, however, as Angelina, one of the Gryffindor Quidditch players, marches up to the table.

"Hey, Angelina," Harry greets.

"Hi," she replies. "Good summer?" Before he can have the time to give his enthusiastic reply, she continues with, "Listen, I've been made Quidditch Captain."

"Congratulations, I'm happy for you," Harry says truthfully. "Good luck with finding a new seeker."

Their immediate surroundings go quiet. Angelina blinks, processes this information, and gapes. "Wh – what?" she splutters. "New - "

Harry puts on a confused mask. "Haven't I told you yet?" he asks, feigning innocence. "Oh, well – I won't be playing for the team this year."

Angelina pales drastically, eyes going wide. "But – "

"I'm sorry, Angelina," Harry says with a wince, "but I really want to focus on my studies this year… with OWL's coming up, and all… I'm flattered, really, but…"

As if. Fine, he might be a tad interested in studying, but he's far more interested in helping Tom.

Angelina's expression tightens. "Yes," she says stiffly. "Of course, Potter." She stalks away from the table, and Harry, feeling only a slightly bit guilty, turns back to his friends.

Ron is gaping at him. Neville looks puzzled. Hermione's beaming. "Really, Harry?" she asks, voice trembling in her joy. "You'll focus on your studies this year?"

Harry nods as he chomps down on his sandwich.

Ron and Neville exchange looks. "They're both barmy," Neville whispers. Ron nods mournfully.

Their first class is History of Magic with the Hufflepuffs.

Which gives him a perfect opportunity. The class is nap-time anyway, and as it's one of the few times Harry can possibly talk to someone from Hufflepuff without looking suspicious, he hurries to sit down besides Susan Bones. She gives him a surprised look, but shrugs and turns away.

He notices, after only three minutes into the lesson, that she's just as bored as him. He smiles to himself and fishes out a parchment from his satchel. _I'm trying to start a study group with people from all across the Houses,_ Harry scratches onto it. _You interested?_

He nudges Susan with his elbow and slides the parchment over to her side of the desk. She looks even more surprised now, but takes the parchment and begins to read. Harry resolutely keeps his gaze focused on Binns.

A few moments later, the parchment slides back over to his side.

 _Who, when, where?_

Harry grins. _Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom, me, Luna Lovegood, (you) + any you want to bring. Once a week. Library._

A short pause. _Draco Malfoy?_

 _long story, can't tell over paper. we're friends._

There's a slightly longer pause. _Sure_ , comes Susan's reply. _I'm bringing Hannah Abbot or none._

 _Deal_ , Harry scratches. He offers Susan a slight smile and stuffs the parchment back into his satchel before returning to his lesson.

One step closer.

Now he just had to inform everyone else of this study group.

Damn it.

The next class they have is Potions with the Slytherins. Harry enters the room, catches Draco's gaze with a pointed look, and sits down at an empty table. He has to talk to him anyways; why not try and get better grades while he's at it?

Draco struts dutifully over a few moments later.

"I'm trying to start a study group," Harry tells him as he sits down. "I want you and Nott to join. Once a week. Library."

Draco recognizes the order and nods tightly, but before he can make any comment at all, Severus sweeps into the classroom with a haughty scowl. His gaze lingers on Draco-next-to-Harry for a moment, but he turns sharply and ignores them. Good.

Turns out that Harry still sucks at Potions. Big time.

The fourth time he nearly messes up the potion in the span of ten minutes, Draco gives him a pointed look. "Are you even _trying_?" he asks.

"I'm good at _Healing_ ," Harry mutters sourly as he pulls the textbook closer again, "not _Potions_."

"Unimportant," Draco sniffs. "Read the damned instructions, Harry."

Harry grumbles good-naturedly and begins to read for the umpteenth time.

Harry falls asleep during Divination, and he isn't even ashamed to admit it. Well, at least he's not the only one.

Next is Defence Against the Dark Arts… with Umbridge. Harry has resigned himself to do whatever she wants her students to do, but he still grits his teeth so hard that it hurts when she dismisses Hermione like she's gum under her soles.

"There's nothing in the course aims that talk about _using_ defensive magic," Hermione points out, when she finally manages to sneak in a few words.

Harry's, along with everyone else's, head snaps around to re-read the course aims. Harry is the only one who proceeds to scowl.

"Using defensive magic?" Umbridge repeats, her eyebrows shooting into her hairline. "Why, I have never… are you expecting to be attacked during my classes?"

"Aren't we going to use magic?" Ron exclaims in surprise.

"Students raise their hands when they want to speak, Mr…?"

"Weasley," Ron supplies promptly, thrusting his hand into the air.

Umbridge turns her back on him. Hermione immediately raises her hand as well. Smiling a sickly sweet smile, Umbridge gathers her hands in front of her abdominal and smiles sweetly. "Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," says Hermione, a frown forming on her brow. "Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" Umbridge asks in a voice as falsely sweet as her smile.

"No, but – "

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the "whole point" of any class is," Umbridge interrupts, turning away from Hermione to address the class as a whole. "Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way – "

Oh, Harry wants _so desperately_ to say something, but Umbridge is obviously against speaking up for oneself, so he ducks his head and flips through his book as she speaks.

"What're we gonna use _that_ for?" says Neville loudly, voice trembling in anger. Harry looks up in surprise. He's usually quite shy when it comes to matters like this. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a – "

"Hand, Mr. Longbottom!" sang Professor Umbridge. Oh, so she knows _Neville's_ name, but not _Ron's_? God, this _woman –_

Neville's hand rockets into the skies faster than Hermione's ever has. Umbridge, unable to recognize this great feat for what it is, promptly turns away from him.

But now several other people have their hands up, too. She can't ignore them all, and, perhaps in a desperate attempt to find an alley, she sweeps her eyes over the classroom and frowns.

Even though Harry's not supposed to show it, he lets a tiny grin slip past his calm mask. Herd mentality? Perhaps. Awesome classmates? Very likely.

"And your name is?" Umbridge finally says, apparently having decided that Dean is of alley-material.

"Dean Thomas," Dean replies, looking slightly relieved he's been picked.

"Well, Mr. Thomas?"

"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" says Dean. Umbridge's face falls slightly. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk free."

"I repeat," Umbridge says, smiling in a way that rubs Harry _entirely_ the wrong way, "do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"

"No, but – "

"I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school," Umbridge interrupts, "but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed – not to mention," she gives a nasty little laugh, "extremely dangerous half-breeds."

"If you mean Professor Lupin," Dean begins angrily, "he was the best we ever – "

"Hand, Mr. Thomas! As I was saying – you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day – "

"No we haven't," Hermione says, "we just – "

"Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!"

Hermione puts up her hand. Umbridge turns away from her.

"It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you," she continues, as if she hadn't just been the rudest woman on the planet.

"Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?" says Dean hotly. "Mind you, we still learned loads."

"Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!" Umbridge trills. "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?" she adds, staring at Parvati, whose hand just shot up.

"Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses and things?"

"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," Umbridge says dismissively.

"Without ever practicing them beforehand?" Parvati exclaims. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?"

"I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough – "

"And what good's theory going to be in the _actual_ world?" Neville interrupts, his fist in the air again. All eyes are immediately on him, and while he reddens slightly, he keeps his gaze locked firmly on Umbridge.

"This is school, Mr. Longbottom," she says softly, her voice gone deadly calm, "not the real world."

"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?" Neville asks.

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Longbottom."

"Oh, yeah?" says Ron, throwing his dime into the conversation.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" Umbridge asks, putting on a worried expression.

 _There are plenty of bad people out there_ , Harry thinks drily. _Ever heard of rape, professor?_

"I don't know," Ron says. "Maybe… _You-Know-Who_? _He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named_?"

A murmured agreement rumbles through the class. Umbridge is staring at Neville with an oddly calm expression. "Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley," she says softly.

The classroom goes silent and still.

"Now, let me make a few things quite plain," Umbridge says, her expression now dead serious and completely natural. "You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead – "

"But he wasn't dead, was he?" says Ron angrily, "but yeah, he's returned – isn't that right, Harry?"

Harry's heart stills as all focus is turned on him. This was _not_ the plan! He wasn't supposed to be brought into it like this, now he _has_ to say something, he isn't prepared – "I – " he says. He wasn't supposed to be put in the spotlight like this – shit – shit –

Thankfully, before he can speak and fuck shit up big time, Umbridge replies. "Mr-Weasley-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," she says, in one breath, without looking away from Ron. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a _lie_."

Ron grits his teeth, as does Neville, but the class eventually quiets down. Harry ducks his head. He feels horrible; his friends just fought for his honor while he sat there, staring emptily into the air like the twat he is –

"Well," Umbridge says brightly, clapping her hands together like an enthusiastic child. Harry feels his dislike for her rise even higher. "If that's all, let's resume our reading, shall we?"

" _Harry_ ," Hermione hisses as they exit the room. She grabs ahold of Harry's elbow – the one with Athie curled around it, and as protectiveness surges through him – _oh no you don't_ – Harry tugs his arm out of her hold.

"Yeah, mate," Ron pipes up, before Hermione can comment on Harry's abrupt move. He's frowning confusedly. "What was all that about?"

"Why didn't you say anything?" Neville joins. "I mean, even _I_ said something – "

"Voldemort isn't back," Harry blurts.

Hermione, Ron, and Neville all halt to a stop. Harry comes to as stop as fell, a few steps in front of them. He looks at the floor shoulders hunched, and wraps his arms around his torso.

"Isn't – " Ron says.

"But – but Harry, you _saw_ him – " Hermione interrupts.

Harry shakes his head mutely. "I _thought_ I saw him. Cedric died in the maze," he says softly, turning around to face his shock-stricken friends, bearing a vulnerable and frightened expression. "It was an accident. I'd walked through some hallucinogen-ish fog… I… it was all a vision… and now the whole Wizarding World either think the Dark Lord's back, or that I'm a lunatic…"

He trails off and looks down at the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers, when they don't reply.

" _Harry_ ," Hermione breathes, rushing forward and pulling him into a tight hug. "Oh – it's – "

Neville awkwardly pats Harry on the shoulder. "You could've told us, mate," he offers gently. "But I understand that you didn't."

"We have to tell the Headmaster," Hermione gasps, pulling back from Harry to give him a frightened look. "He must be so worried – "

"I have told him," Harry replies. He winces at having to pull out this card again. "But he's told me that Voldemort really _is_ back, or that we at least should keep our eyes open…" Getting an idea that might divert Hermione's attention, he hurries to add, "and he's the _Headmaster_ , yeah? He's… he's probably right, and I trust him." He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Voldemort didn't come back that night, and he didn't kill Cedric. That's all I know."

Hermione smiles a wobbly smile when she hears Harry speak so highly of authority figures. Just as she opens her mouth to reply, the bell rings, and her eyes go wide. "Oh no!" she cries. "We'll be late for next class! Come on, guys – hurry!" With that, she sets off in a flurry of motion down the deserted hallway.

Sharing a look, Harry, Ron, and Neville set off after her.

Harry lets out a relieved breath. They believe him. Thank God.

The rest of the week passes… almost quickly.

It's a bit hard, keeping up with his friends – especially now, that he's closer to a mental age of 70 than 15. He despises lying to them, hates the fact that he has to hide who he is, and yeah, it hurts, but he _has_ to. They won't accept him as he currently is. He can't come out to them. So he fakes it, fakes his own personality, laughs at their jokes, dumb down his words. And it… works. Somehow.

He spends some ten minutes talking to Tom every day, sometimes in hidden alcoves in the castle, sometimes behind closed shutters after dark, sometimes out on school grounds. Athie keeps telling him to _fix this_ before going to sleep at night, cuddled against Harry's chest, and Harry keeps telling her he doesn't know how.

It all becomes too much, at times, and when that happens, he grabs hold of Neville – quiet, calm, understanding Neville – and escapes to the lake, where they sit in silence and watch the waves crush against the shore with a forceful gentleness Harry feels echo within himself.

Hermione, Ron, and Neville keep coming with small comments about Hagrid and that he's missing, and Harry feels guilty for not caring more, but he's having a bit of trouble keeping up with homework, himself, faking a personality, and trying to ignore the aching bond – so, in all fairness, he can be allowed to slack a bit in the caring-about-Hagrid department.

He gains the trust of Umbridge by being one of the only students who don't complain about her classes and working methods, follow rules, and only answer to questions she ask. He understands as much that she favors the Slytherins – and a handful of other students, one of which is him. Mission accomplished. Now he just has to keep it up.

Towards the end of the week he manages to grab hold of the twins; a hushes whisper behind a statue in a hidden-away corridor, three mischievous grins, an exchange of (not enough, if you ask Harry) money, and Harry has a set of fresh pranks on his hands.

He manages to set up the Study Group with little to no fuss (Hermione beams, Ron and Neville are roped into it with her, Draco forces Nott to join, and Luna agrees easily), and through the first study session, he manages to somewhat-befriend both Susan and Hannah.

He's not supposed to care, not really, but he has to hide his grin behind a book about bezoars when Hermione and Nott begin to talk enthusiastically and, dare he say it, passionately about their Potions essay.

He gets a letter back from the Minister, saying that he's very relieved Harry sees Dumbledore for who he is, and does he want to meet up on a Hogsmead weekend if it's not too much trouble?

("Of course," Harry replies – and words his letter a _bit_ too enthusiastic, to boost Fudge's self-esteem)

And then Friday evening comes. "I'm going to the library," Harry tells his friends, who're in the middle of a game of Exploding Snap. Hermione looks up, then down at her cards, then back up again with a nod.

"See you later, Harry," she says, smiling softly.

Harry exits the Common Room and immediately makes a run for the Main Entrance.

" _Safety_ ," Harry hisses, a thrill rushing through him at finally getting to use the crow-quill Portkey. He's transported directly into Tom's office. He's not there, of course, the meeting has probably already begun – and so Harry rushes through the hallway, into his bedroom, and after a few stumbled minutes and a quick debate with himself, he's into his Healer robes. He's missed them more than the Death Eater robes, after all, and the Death Eaters probably need the reminder about his status.

After another rush-through-the-hallways (and _oh_ it's wonderful to have the robes snapping around his ankles again), he arrives at the doors of the meeting room. He blasts them open with a force of magic, spreads his arms wide, and calls, "Honey, I'm home!"

Twenty-or-so eyes stare at him, most of them shocked, some of them somewhat disgusted, and one terribly un-amused.

"James," Tom-as-Voldemort, the terribly un-amused, greets flatly. Harry knows him well enough to hear the tremble in his voice, and revels in the knowledge that Tom's missed him, as well. "So you decided to gift us with your presence. How thoughtful of you."

Oh, the sarcasm. The wonderful sarcasm. "Oh, I wouldn't miss this meeting for the _world_ ," Harry chirps, strutting over to his place on Voldemort's right hand side. He sits down in his chair, and the bond sings out in joy, sending warm shivers down his spine. "What's it about, again?"

Voldemort gives him an extremely flat look before sighing. "The next attack," he says sourly. "Do try to keep up, James."

"Of course, of course," Harry nods, putting on a very serious mask. "Well, shall we begin?" he asks, knowing full well that the meeting begun some five minutes ago.

When the pranks go off about half-way through the meeting, Harry keeps a marvelously straight face as the place erupts into chaos (Voldemort glares at him, of course, but his upper lips twitch, so Harry knows he's trying not to laugh).

Afterward, when the Death Eaters are dismissed, Harry follows Voldemort out through the back door. Tom-as-Voldemort snaps his fingers, his disguise melts away, and without a moment of hesitation Harry latches onto him with all his might.

The familiar warmth seeps through the two sets of robes, a heartbeat he's missed far too much beating against his cheek, and Harry, hands clutching Tom's robes in tight fistfuls, very nearly begins to cry.

He doesn't say anything, because nothing is required. Tom understands his need, and only pulls him over to the nearest chair and sits down. He gathers him on his lap, holds him as close as possible and then _even closer_ , and Harry nuzzles the crook of his neck and feels like he comes home.

The deep, aching pain that's been tearing Harry apart the last week eases, and thank the fucking gods, he's warm, he's fine, they're fine, they're both fine, _everything's_ going to be fine.

As Tom slowly begins to run his fingers through Harry's hair, Harry muses that _safety_ was the perfect password for the Portkey.

It's strange, isn't it, that he feels the safest within the Dark Lord's embrace.

(not really.)


	8. Chapter 8

Hogsmeade is a flurry of motion; students rushing all over, a cat shrieking, loud talking and some thick sunlight flittering through the heavy air. People are generally having a good time - but Harry is, of course, oblivious to this, as he's currently stepping into a private room in the Three Broomsticks.

The Minister is sitting by a table and reading a newspaper, but when Harry enters, he startles and looks up. The surprised expression fades in favor of a pleased one. "Ah, Mr. Potter," he greets cheerfully. "Very nice of you to come, my boy."

Harry blushes and ducks his head as he closes the door behind him. "I – of course, Minister," he replies, letting awe drip into his voice like sugar-coated honey. "Such an important man as you…"

Fudge puffs out his chest and preens a bit at that. "Oh, but you are an important young man, as well," he points out.

 _No_ , Harry thinks, _not young at all_.

He doesn't say anything, blushes again, and makes his way over to the table, where he sits down.

"But to get to business, Harry – can I call you Harry?" Harry nods hurriedly. "Well, Harry – your letter was a great relief to me," Fudge says, smiling warmly at him. It doesn't look half as fake as it should. "I was afraid Albus was getting to the students, you see, and that the two of you were – ah… conspiring against the Ministry."

Harry's eyes go wide and he reels back as if slapped. "Conspiring against – " he splutters. "Oh, Minister, I would do _no such thing_! I promise you, I am one hundred per cent on _your_ side!" Here he takes a deep breath, widens his eyes again, and ducks his head. He lets a beat of silence pass before muttering; "I – I'm sorry. I didn't mean – "

Fudge chuckles warmly. "As I said, a great relief," he repeats. "And I have some matters to discuss with you…"

Harry looks up with an open and honored expression. "With _me_?" he repeats. "Oh, Minister, it would be an _honor_ ," he gasps. "Please, do go on!"

When Harry exits the Three Broomsticks forty minutes later, it's with a wide grin on his face. Fudge has confided in him; now he just has to push the thought of muggles being dangerous in through the cracks available to him.

Beautiful. This is going exactly as planned.

The next day Harry passes Umbridge in the hallway. He meets her gaze purely on accident – and nearly has a stroke when she gives him a genuine (and disgusting) smile.

God. She's a horrifying, vile creature.

This thought only increases in strength when Harry's returning to the Gryffindor Common Room after a chat with Tom. The halls of Hogwarts castle are mostly deserted, as it's less than thirty minutes left before curfew, and Harry's humming softly to himself as he walks through the stone halls.

Until he walks past an alcove and hears muffled crying.

He stops. Tilts his head. " _I smell human_ ," Athie offers (un)helpfully from inside Harry's robes. " _Young hatchling, in need of protection._ "

"H – hello?" a soft, wobbly and uncertain voice calls from the darkness. Harry's heart stutters and he inhales sharply; Athie's right. It's the voice of a child.

"Hello," he calls back, schooling his voice to be calm and soothing. "Are you okay?"

"Y – yeah," the voice sniffles. Not believing that one second, Harry steps over to the alcove and into the shadows it offers. On the ground a young kid – not any older than twelve, Harry guesses – is huddled up against one of the walls.

"Hey," Harry mutters, crouching down in front of them. "What's wrong?"

Fresh tears streak the kid's face, their eyes blood-shot and wet. Their lower lip tremble, and then more tears well up in their eyes. "I – I got – detention for – defending – " they gasp out, between sobs and violent trembling.

"Alright, shh," Harry whispers softly, going down on his knees and shuffling a bit closer, "shh, it's okay, breathe, honey, breathe – "

The kid nods hurriedly through their tears. Harry keeps his quiet as they slowly regain their calm.

"You got detention?" he asks gently. The kid nods again, looking down at their lap guiltily. "With whom?" It's probably Severus – he's not gentle on any of the students, and it's often a shock for the first years the first time they end up with him –

"Professor Umbridge," the kid whispers, still without looking up at Harry. "I – my friends were – there were some Ravenclaws, I think, they were bullying my friends – I was late for class cus' I helped them, and – and – " Tears well up in the kid's eyes again, and they bring their hands up to their face and sob quietly into them.

Harry coos softly and pulls the kid closer, letting them latch onto him and bury their face in his shoulder. Sometimes that's all you really need.

"What did she do?" he whispers, keeping his hands still on the kid's back. "Professor Umbridge, what did she do?"

"I – it's probably usual, I wouldn't know, but – but it hurts, I don't know what to do – "

Harry stiffens. It _hurts_? Detention isn't supposed to _hurt,_ what has that bitch done? What has the bitch done to a _kid_? "What hurts?" he asks softly, pulling back from the kid to look at them with a worried frown.

The kid silently holds out their hand. Harry takes it gently, at first not understanding –

but then his fingers make contact with something wet and slippery, and when he leans closer, he sees –

sees –

"What did she do?" he repeats, careful not to let the fuming anger into his voice. "How did she do it?"

"I – she had me – she had me write lines – " the kid stutters. "I'm – I'm sorry – "

"Shh," Harry whispers, turning the tiny hand over in his own to see if more damage is done. "Look, I'm good at Healing spells – would you like me to patch it up for you?"

The kid stares at him with wide eyes. "Yes, please," they squeak. "I – yes."

Harry smiles sadly at them, pulls out his wand, and begins the complicated process that is healing wounds caused by cursed objects.

The next time he visits Tom, cuddled up against his side and reading through his homework, he spits out a cold, "I know I'm supposed to be nice to her now, but when all this is over and I get my hands on her…" The words trail off to a growl, and he grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

"My," Tom purrs, tugging at a loose strand of Harry's hair, "considering torture, are we?"

" _Yes_."

Two weeks pass like that. Study Groups, making friends with the other students from the other houses (and pretending to be asleep on top of a book so he wouldn't disturb Hannah and Susan's snogging session, whelp), chatting with Tom over mirrors, exchanging another letter with the Minister wanting a second meeting, chilling with Neville, exchanging sarcastic remarks with Athie in the cover of shadows, and generally being okay.

But nothing lasts forever, does it?

The bond slowly crumbles, and suddenly Harry has to portkey over to Tom every third day or so, or the bond will tear him apart. That in itself is okay, it's good, it's fine – the problem is that it's not always predictable, and if Harry forgets it or loses track of the time he has to sneak back to the Common Room after curfew, often without his Invisibility cape.

Which, of course, means that he stumbles into Severus.

"Mr. Potter," the Death Eater drawls, glaring down at Harry. "It's forty-three minutes past curfew. What, pray tell, is more important than following school rules?"

 _Not going mad thanks to a bond_ , Harry thinks sourly. He's tired, he's in a bad mood, and he'd forgotten Athie in the Dorm when he rushed off to meet Tom, so she's probably pissed. He _really_ doesn't have time for Severus' bullshit.

Thinking fast, he manages to utter the reply, "living in my father's memory, of course."

Severus' right eye twitches. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he whispers coldly, "for blatant disrespect of a professor – and detention, for – "

Really, Harry does _not_ have time for this. "But think of what my father would say!" he wails. "You know, James?" Here he raises his eyebrows very deliberately.

Severus hesitates for .01 second, and then he scowls. "I have no idea what you are insinuating, Potter."

"Oh, but I think you do, Severus," says Harry, with a carefully blank expression. "Now please let me back to my dormitory."

"Mr. _Potter_ ," Severus snaps. "Just as arrogant as your father – !"

"I also share the _name_ of my father," Harry reminds him, acting far more calm than he is – he's losing his patience. "You know. James? Jakobus?"

At the last name, Severus tenses. A few moments pass where they have the most intense staring contest known to human kind. "You can't be," Severus whispers, a breath of disbelief in the cold corridor.

"But I _am_ ," Harry chirps. "Now, would you _please_ let me go to bed, before I have Voldemort chop of your fingers?"

Severus seems to have a long debate with himself, considering the pros and the cons – but finally settles on the only logical conclusion.

He steps aside. "Go to bed, Mr. Potter," he hisses.

"Good night, Severus!" Harry throws over his shoulder as he jogs back to the dormitory. He can smell his warm bed waiting for him, almost _hear_ Athie's sass –

but, alas, he's not that lucky.

Hermione's waiting for him by the fireplace. When the portrait of the Fat Lady swings open, she shoots up, a flurry of motion, and stalks a few steps in his direction. "Where on Earth have you been?" she asks, her voice calm, but every inch of her – including the run-away strand dangling in front of her face – looks stern. "You've been disappearing a lot lately."

 _Lie_ , a part of him whispers, _lie fast and lie well_. "Oh, er…" Harry says, scrambling for an excuse, "uhm, Draco. Draco wanted help with the charms essay for Tuesday."

Hermione slowly raises an eyebrow. "You've been gone for two hours, Harry. Draco spent the last three hours before curfew with me in the library, studying the proper uses of oak as a wand wood in America."

"Oh…" Harry trails off. He scratches at his neck. "Uhm… listen, Hermione, I… I don't feel up to telling you just yet… okay?" he asks softly. Hermione's eyebrows fall into a soft, confused frown, and her stance shifts from offensive to exposed. "I will tell you," Harry hurries to add, "and I _promise_ I'm not doing anything dangerous – but… I'm not… I'm not ready to tell you just yet."

The frown softens. "Oh, Harry," she sighs. "Of course. It's just… I've been worried, you know? After this summer, and Cedric, and all the stress of V- Voldemort… I'm worried you're – hurting yourself or – or something."

Alarmed, Harry widens his eyes. "Hurting myself? Oh, no, Hermione, it's nothing like that – quite the opposite, really – I'm doing it for my own sake – "

Hermione holds up her hands. "Say no more," she interrupts. "You don't have to tell me _anything_ that makes you uncomfortable, Harry, as long as you promise me you stay safe."

Harry thinks to the Death Eaters he spends more than a few waking hours with every single week. "Of course," he replies, feeling only a little bit guilt at lying to his friend. "Thank you."

Hermione gives him a grateful look. "Well… I'll see you tomorrow, Harry. Good night."

And finally – _finally_ – Harry makes his way to the dormitory. He considers, briefly, to call Tom with the mirror to tell him about Hermione and Severus, but before he can decide against it he's fast asleep.

Oh, well – he'll just have to go talk to him tomorrow, then.

"Tomorrow" Harry sneaks away after dinner. He gives Tom a heads-up that he's coming, and portkeys almost promptly over to the Manor.

Tom is in his office, idly flipping pages in a book. "Hello, Harry," he greets calmly without looking up.

"Tom," Harry replies. He sighs and sits down in the chair opposite of Tom's. "Uhm… Hermione knows that I keep going here."

Tom's head snaps up, eyes wide in surprise and slight fear. "How?" he whispers.

"She's a smart kid," Harry defends himself, "she picked up on the fact that I kept disappearing for some hours every other day."

This seems to calm Tom somewhat. "What did you tell her?" he asks, pushing aside his chair and walking over to the comfortable couch alongside the left wall. It's the couch the two of them usually, well, cuddle in, so it's an obvious invitation.

"That I wasn't ready to explain," Harry shrugs. He walks over to the couch as well, accepting the invite and dropping his satchel to the floor as he settles into the couch and snuggles up to Tom's side. "She accepted it upon the premises that I knew what I was doing and wasn't hurting myself."

"Ah," Tom mutters, "the ever-loving friend."

"Yep," Harry replies, closing his eyes and savoring in the pleasure the bond offers at the contact. "Oh!" he suddenly blurts, eyes snapping open again as he remembers the other reason for his visit. "Also, key Severus into my disguise, will you?"

"Did you – " Tom cuts himself off and groans. " _Harry_ ," he berates. "You – "

"I know," Harry snaps, "I know and I'm _sorry_ , I was mad and tired and he was standing in my way. I shouldn't have acted so rashly and I will be more careful in the future, yada, yada, yada, I understand the severity of my actions, now will you _please key the blasted man into my disguise_?" Harry rants. By the end of his little speech his heart's beating fast in his chest, anger tearing through his veins though there's no real reason for that to be.

Tom is still next to him.

The silence stretches on.

"I'm sorry," Harry says quietly, trying to sit up straight. "That was – "

"Don't," Tom says softly, tugging Harry back into the crook of his arm and nuzzling the top of his head. "Don't worry."

Harry hesitates. "Okay," he whispers, "okay."

And it is.

Harry chooses to stay for a little longer than necessary, just because he can. He's reading over some Potions homework, Tom having moved back to the desk once more, when Tom pulls out a scrap of parchment and hands it over to Harry. Raising an eyebrow in confusion, Harry takes the parchment and glances at it. Startled, he takes a double look.

It's a pencil sketch of – a cuff? No, a wide bracelet. It resembles the brooch in the way that the decorations match – the bracelet has three intricate snakes curling around it, twisting around each other once or twice, small jewels or stones placed as their eyes.

Harry blinks and looks up at Tom. "Tom?" he asks softly. "What's this?"

"I was thinking of making it for you," Tom admits nonchalantly, opening the book he'd been reading in when Harry first entered. "The quill-portkey can easily be lost."

Harry's fingers tighten around the parchment. "Why a bracelet?" he wonders. His voice trembles.

"Matches the brooch, doesn't it?" Tom asks. He looks up from the book and throws a grin in Harry's direction. "Besides, if you keep it on all times it'll be harder to lose, and if someone steals it it's easier to find."

Harry looks down at the sketch again. "Looks expensive," he mutters.

"It's supposed to be silver," Tom says, "the snakes are to be a mixture of bronze and copper, their eyes an emerald."

Harry hums. "And you are to make it yourself?" he asks, looking back up at Tom.

In his chest is a soft thrum, a deep sense of longing that he doesn't quite understand.

"Yes," Tom replies promptly.

His heart beating thickly at the back of his tongue, Harry stands up from the couch, walks over to Tom, and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. "Thank you," he whispers, letting his breath fan over Tom's skin, "I love it."

Tom, who'd tensed up when Harry stepped up behind him, exhales shakily. "Someone had to do it," he mutters. "I'll have it ready for your next visit."

"Wonderful," Harry breathes, straightening up and walking back to the couch again, "thanks."

The rest of his visit passes by in a heavy but comfortable silence, and when Harry leaves he offers Tom a small smile as he portkeys away.

They both know that Tom did not make the bracelet with a portkey in mind.

Umbridge passes the Decree Number Twenty Four that says no more than three people are allowed to hang out. The Study Group is surprised and pissed – and Harry is quite smug, to say the least, that the nine of them have bonded so much already.

Harry takes it to Umbridge, who's surprised to see him at her office, but gives them permission to keep up the study sessions – "As long as you keep control over Mr. Weasley, Mr. Longbottom and Miss Granger, of course."

Speaking of Study Sessions…

"Are we the only couple in this group?" Hannah pipes up during one of the sessions, gesturing between her and Susan.

The others exchange looks. Not all of them knew that the two Hufflepuffs were dating – but hey, now they do, so…

"No," Luna says. She's picking at a swan-feather quill, her wide eyes calm in a way they rarely are these days. "Draco and I have been going out for a while."

Hermione gasps. "What, really?" she exclaims.

All eyes snap to Draco, who's blushing slightly. He nods mutely. The blush intensifies when Hermione, Hannah, and Susan coo.

"Congratulations," Theodore smirks, "didn't think you had it in you." He yelps, which means that Draco just kicked him underneath the table. Unfortunately for Theodore, Hermione's also sitting next to him, and she swats his shoulder.

"Come, now, Theo," she berates sternly, "that's not nice."

Theodore pouts at her and returns to his book.

"How did _that_ happen?" Ron asks, an uncertain eyebrow raised in Draco's direction.

"She, uhm," Draco stutters, "sort of… latched onto me and wouldn't let go before I told her why I'd been avoiding her."

Luna looks at him with wide, innocent eyes. "I did?" she asks. "I had no idea."

Draco scowls at her, the stern expression cracking up when she leans over and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Hermione, Hannah, and Susan coo again.

"Anyway," Draco coughs, turning back to his book – but before he can continue, Hermione blurts out with –

"And you, Harry?"

Harry, who's been on-and-off reading his book throughout the conversation, blinks up at her. "Hm?"

"Are you dating anyone?" Hermione clarifies.

"Dating?" Harry repeats. "Nah." He turns back to his book. Seeing someone twice a week and talking about how to gain control of the wizarding world with? _Now_ we're talking.

"I think it'd be good for you," Hannah chirps, "do we know of any possible candidates?"

Hermione hums. Harry, deeply amused, shakes his head and buries it further into his book.

"I think Cho Chang likes you, Harry," Hermione muses. "What do you think of her?"

"Chang?" Harry, absentmindedly, says. "Nah, she's far too young for me."

"Too – " Hermione splutters. "Harry, she's – she's _older than you_!"

…ops.

And so time passes – late summer becomes early autumn, and the bond slowly starts to crave more.

It's fine – Harry can take it, as long as he has the short moments with Tom squeezed in between everything else –

but of course, one week he's given _just_ a bit too much homework, Ron begs him to watch Quidditch fights, Neville wants help with a Charms project – and when you throw the Study Group into the mix, he's rendered incapable of going to see Tom when he otherwise would.

By the end of the week everything feels wrong; his skin itches, dark rashes spreading across his body, he's having problems concentrating – in intervals he has too much energy and then not enough at all, and _fuck_ but he needs Tom, the bond needs Tom, _Harry_ needs Tom –

the moment the last class of Friday ends, Harry runs out of the castle and portkeys the moment he feels himself escape the wards. Tom is in the office when he enters, and Harry knows he doesn't imagine it, he sees the bags under Tom's eyes and knows that Tom's been just as troubled as him –

Harry stumbles in his own two feet in his haste to get to Tom, and when he throws himself at him, his weight causes them to topple over – and the warmth, the smell, the closeness, the comfort – it's _good_ , it soothes, but it's not enough, it's not _enough_ , has never been enough, and the bond is screaming at the top of its lunges and oh, Harry needs, Harry _needs –_

he pulls back and mashes their lips together in a rough, messy kiss, and God, he's drowning, he's drowning in Tom and the bond and this great relief welling up in him and Tom's kissing him back, hands on his back and pulling him closer, and Tom's _everything he's_ _ **everything**_ –

afterward, when they've both discarded more than a few clothes, Harry on top of Tom and fingers tangled messily above their heads, Harry feels complete in a way he's never done before.

If it's the bond causing it, he doesn't know.

He's not sure if he wants to know.

Later, when Harry returns to Hogwarts, dizzy and grinning like a mad-man, more than half the school is eating Dinner.

Which, of course, means that Hermione's the only one in the Gryffindor Common Room. She's reading before the fireplace, but when he enters the room, she looks up with a smile. "Hey, Harry," she greets. "Been off to mysterious places again?"

"Yep," Harry smiles, trotting over to the couch and plopping down next to her, "that I have."

Hermione's smile freezes and her eyes widen, gaze focused around Harry's shoulders. "Harry," she gasps, "is that a _hickey_?"

 _Teeth on his skin and a low rumble in his ears, gentle sucking and a low laughter –_

Harry's eyes widen and he slaps a hand to his neck. "Uhm," he says, "no?"

Hermione narrows her eyes. "I expect you to tell me sometime," she mutters, "but – "

"It's Thomas," Harry blurts, an idea falling into his head out of nowhere. "You know, Draco's cousin?"

It's as if the words are magic. Even though it's only Harry and Hermione in the room, everything goes deadly quiet. "Thomas Malfoy?" Hermione repeats weekly. " _Thomas_? As in the squib we met in Diagon Alley?"

Harry flushes. "Yes," he whispers, "that's… that's him."

Hermione sits back in her seat, a deep frown on her brow. "That's… Harry, how did this happen?"

Harry scratches at his neck and looks away. "I… this summer… Draco's my friend, but… but with Thomas, everything was different. I… we… we fell in love. Over the summer. I didn't say anything to you because I was worried about his reputation, and…" Harry trails off, ducking his head to blink sadly down at his lap. "I'm sorry. I should've told you."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione whispers. "He's the one you've been sneaking over to?"

Harry nods mutely.

Hermione sniffles. "I'm so happy for you," she mutters. "Thank you for trusting me with this."

"You – you're fine with it?" Harry asks, looking up at her with feigned surprise. "That – that he's a boy? That he's a Malfoy?"

"Of course," Hermione says. There are tears in her eyes. "Of course, Harry, I'm your _friend_ , why wouldn't I be fine with it?"

Harry smiles softly at her. "Thank you," he replies. "It – it means a lot."

Hermione nods, before her expression withers into uncertainty. "Uhm… now that you've admitted this to me… I… uhm…" She pokes her index fingers together. "IthinkI'mfallinginlovewithTheo."

Harry blinks. "Theodore?" he repeats. "Theodore Nott?"

Hermione nods.

Harry smiles. "Good luck," he offers. "I hope you'll find happiness with him."

Giving a watery laugh, Hermione rubs at her eyes. "Y – yeah," she giggles, "so do I."

Harry hugs her briefly before patting her shoulder and going for the staircases up to the Dorms. He's tired, damn it. Food can wait. Sleep is now.

The next morning, Harry decides to mirror-call Tom as soon as possible to tell him about the newest change in plans. "As soon as possible" turns out to be pretty late, as Harry sleeps in and doesn't wake before noon.

" _Morning, Athie,_ " he calls, sleepily rubbing at his eyes as he sits up.

" _Good morning, hatchling Harry,_ " Athie replies, hissing from somewhere near his feet. " _And congratulations."_

Harry blinks, stopping with the rubbing to throw his feet a confused glance. " _Congratulations_?" he repeats.

Athie pokes her head out through the covers near the far-end of the bed. " _Yes_ ," she hisses, sounding faintly confused herself, " _I can smell your mate on you_ ," she attempts to explain, " _I am merely congratulating you on the fact that you finally solved your problem_."

Harry blushes. " _Uh – uhm, okay,"_ he mutters. " _Er… thanks, I guess."_

Shaking his head slightly when Athie gives no reply, he pulls apart his hangings and lets light into his bed. And then, without further ado, he reaches for his mirror and calls for Tom.

"Good morning, Tom," Harry chirps, when Tom's face shows up in the reflection.

"Morning?" Tom repeats, raising an eyebrow. There's a dark hickey just beneath his jaw. "It's after noon, you idiot."

Harry shrugs. "Life's too short to worry about time, Tom," he berates jokingly. "Anyway, I just wanted to inform you that "Thomas" is now my boyfriend."

Tom blinks. "…how did that happen?" he asks cautiously.

"Hermione caught me yesterday," Harry admits. "She, ah, wanted to know where I got my hickey from."

Some light color rises to Tom's cheeks. "And you told her what?" he asks, determinedly ignoring said color.

"That I'd fallen in love with Thomas over the duration of the summer, that I've been visiting him the last few weeks thanks to a portkey, that he's made me realize a lot about myself…" Harry says with a small shrug. "Basically just our history, minus all the details and things that could give us away."

Harry doesn't realize what he's said before it's too late.

Tom is silent for a long time, only staring at Harry with a blank and somehow _still_ vulnerable expression. "Harry," he finally says, voice soft and frayed at the edges, "do you… have you fallen in love with me?"

Time halts. Harry's eyes widen in surprise, and he's about to blurt a shocked _no!_ when his senses catch up with him.

And… is it really that far-fetched of a thought?

Harry looks away, uncertainty tearing at the roots of his hear.

He thinks about it – thinks back to their training sessions, to Tom's humor, to Death Eater meetings and robes and planning and fingers tangled and two hurt voices crying out in the same broken tones.

He doesn't have to think long.

"Why, yes," he admits, wonder oozing from the simple words. "It seems I have."

There's exactly two beats, and then Tom's frail voice pierces through the air. "Do I have to say it back?" he asks, and he sounds, for one brief moment, like a fragile glass figurine in bright moonlight.

"Don't lie to spare my feelings, Tom," Harry says with a smile.

"No!" Tom exclaims, a spark of panic flaring up in his eyes. "No," he repeats, more calmly this time, "it's not like that. I just – I'm not comfortable saying it."

Harry's smile fades, and he tilts his head slightly.

He doesn't want to hope, but –

"But if you _were_ to say it," he says, "would it be sincere?"

Tom doesn't hesitate.

"Yes," he whispers desperately. "Merlin, _yes_."

And God, sometimes life is good. Sometimes life is so good that you can barely breathe, that you keep smiling for hours, that your own joy overshadows any artificial ones by _great_ margin. Sometimes, life is good.

But sometimes it isn't.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry isn't sure what he expects to happen the next day. He's pretty sure that not much will change between Tom and him; they've been far too open with each other from the very beginning for much to change. Kissing will probably be more usual now, and causal displays of affection – but they _were_ pretty common from before.

But while he doesn't know what he expects the next day to bring, it _sure as fuck_ isn't Hermione being kidnapped.

He doesn't notice that she's missing before it's far, far too late. Both he and Neville take note of the fact that she's not eating with them during breakfast or lunch, but they don't think too much about it.

It's not before right after dinner that Harry realizes that something is wrong.

He's not truly worried, not in the beginning. Hermione _does_ disappear sometimes, most often to the library, after all. So he strolls casually up into the 5th year Dormitories, fumbles for the Marauders Map, and attempts to find Hermione there.

When he fails to find her nametag on the spelled parchment, his heartbeat kicks up a notch.

With three hours left before curfew Harry sets off into the castle, Invisibility Cloak stuffed in his bag and Athie curled around his arm. Hermione _never_ leaves the castle, not without telling anyone first. Where, oh, _where_ can she _be_?

After an hour of worried pacing across the whole castle, the searching turns frantic. Hermione isn't to be found _anywhere_.

This is _bad_.

He calls Tom at one point, because thanks to his frayed nerves the bond is reacting – and not in a positive way. Tom talks calmly to him for a few minutes, but some Death Eaters break a window and manage to terrify a Wizard walking by, and so he has to excuse himself to solve the situation.

With precisely one and a half hour left before curfew, a note appears in the air before Harry's eyes.

He plucks it down and reads it.

 _By now you surely have noticed that your mudblood friend is gone_ , the note reads. _She deserves to die. But I'll let you watch her, if you want! Just follow the clues, and you'll pop by eventually._

Below is a poem that Harry doesn't take the time to read.

Both anger and intense worry wells up in him, filling his ears with a loud ringing noise.

" _Athie_ ," he hisses, uncaring for who might see him, " _a hatch-mate has been stolen. The preadator has disguised their magical signature, so I can't locate them. Can you smell them out?_ "

Athie, sensing his anger, his panic, and his fear, peeks out of his sleeve and tastes the air. " _Yes_ ," she replies, after a pause that's far too long for Harry's tastes, _"but just their path. Not directly to the predator's den._ "

" _Understood_ ," Harry nods harshly. " _I'll follow where you go_."

 _Deep and dark; mother's mouth  
lifelines reach for endless sky; where stars shine_

 _Fires burn in south,  
papers strung up on thin and frail trees  
swinging in the gentle breeze._

Sticks and twigs whip at Harry's ankles in a cruel imitation of his Healer Robes. Above him, thick and sluggish branches cover up the sky, casting the forest in shadows and darkness. Only a few patches of dark forestry are bathed in moonlight – but where it shines, it pours over the landscape like molten silver.

Harry has no eyes for the beauty of the Forbidden Forest, however. Athie's slithering through the dead leaves covering the ground, her yellow color like a signal flare when surrounded by so much darkness.

She leads him to a clearing, but here she comes to a stop. Letting out a low hiss she curls up into a disgruntled ball. " _Scent gone_ ," she mutters, " _gone._ "

Harry looks up from her, desperation clawing at his chest from the inside, wanting to be freed. If the scent is gone –

but wait! In the middle of the darkness is a beacon of light – a pale piece of parchment, strung up on a loose string and hung onto a seemingly random branch. It's eerily out of place, and Harry nearly stumbles over his feet in his haste to get to it. He tugs it down from the branch with greedy fingers, eyes skimming over the words –

" _Athie!_ " he calls over his shoulder. " _Athie, I found the next clue – can you use this?_ " He turns to his companion and thrusts the paper in her direction.

The snake grumbles something darkly but is soon by Harry's side. " _I am no feline_ ," she sniffs indignantly, " _but I shall do my best_." She bobs her head, which Harry has learned is the snake equivalent of tilting one's head. " _Yes_ ," she says, after a long pause, " _I believe I can_."

" _Great_ ," Harry breathes, _"show the way!_ "

And so the journey begins anew.

Yet, halfway back to the castle grounds, Athie freezes. " _Wait_ ," she hisses, _"Someone is coming_." She bobs her head even as Harry tenses and draws his wand. " _Smells familiar."_

So Harry's met them after school began. That doesn't exactly help him much.

Drawing a deep breath, Harry takes three steps forward, rounds the corner –

and finds himself wand-to-wand with Theodore Nott.

"Theodore," Harry greets, not lowering his wand one moment, "what are you doing here?"

Theodore dips his head stiffly. He looks strained, eyebrows knitted together and mouth pressed into a thin line. "I could say the same to you, Potter," he replies hesitantly.

"Hermione's been kidnapped," Harry explains. "I'm following clues."

Theodore lowers his wand, so Harry tucks away his, as well. "Thank Merlin," Theodore breathes. He stuffs his hand into his robes and pulls out a scrap of parchment. "You dropped the first clue, I think."

Harry cautiously takes the note. "You're looking for Hermione, too?" he asks. He reads the note; yes, still the same poem and hand-writing.

"Yes," Theodore says promptly, "and I'm joining you."

"Fine," Harry nods. Then he calls out, to Athie, " _It's okay, Athie. He's a friend."_ Theodore startles at the hissed words, but seems to calm somewhat when Athie slithers out of the bushes.

" _Hatch-mate?"_ she asks curiously.

Harry chuckles. " _Not quite_ ," he says, _"but he's helping look for the one who's stolen_."

Athie nods to herself and sets of to continue following the scent-trail.

 _Dust in corners; knowledge told  
a heartbeat warming what is cold  
A place forbidden; a painful truth  
Enjoyable for lusting youth._

Theodore skims over the poem and tells Harry that "It's the library, obviously, but that's closed, so we have to sneak in."

Harry shrugs. Fine by him.

They keep a brisk pace when they cross back over the Grounds; the moon sends echoes of shivers down Harry's back, reflecting in gentle waves of the Great Lake. It's a cloudless night, and so the stars light up the landscape.

Through his worry Harry can't find it in him to fawn over the beauty.

When they're halfway across the grounds, Harry's mirror heats up, and he whips it out without breaking the pace. "Hello, Tom," he grits out, "pleasure to talk to you."

Through the sarcasm is a great relief – the bond was beginning to work itself into a panic attack again. "Harry," Tom says. He sounds worried. "Where are you?"

"Grounds," Harry replies, "say hi to Theodore Nott." He turns the mirror briefly. It's mostly to let Tom know that Harry's not alone, and partially to let him see Theodore's confused expression.

"Have you found Granger?" Tom asks without a second look at Theodore.

"No," Harry says, "but we're cracking the clues like crazy."

"Meaning that you have Athie smelling them out," Tom says drily.

Harry pouts.

"Potter," Theodore says cautiously, nodding to the entrance doors, "it's past curfew, we have to be quiet."

"Ah," Harry mutters, pout disappearing in favor for a pained grimace, "right. Bye, Tom."

When Harry puts down the mirror, Theodore opens the entrance doors, and they begin to march towards the library.

Er. _Theodore_ begins to march towards the library. Harry's still following Athie. It just so happens that she's walking in the direction of the library.

Theodore is nearly trembling by Harry's side, and so Harry rolls his eyes with a sigh. "It was my boyfriend," he tells him – and through his worry and his panic, a warm fondness blooms within him. It's not a lie. "Thomas."

"Thomas?" Theodore repeats with a blink. "Thomas _Malfoy_ , Draco's cousin?"

"That's him," Harry nods. "Oh hey, look, the library!"

Entering the library is far too easy, as is accessing the Restricted Section. Theodore searches the room very quickly – they're afraid to use magic around probably-cursed books – and finds the next note in no time.

 _Where elves find their homes, where honey drips;  
a home is found between pots and pans:  
scratching frozen pictures with fingertips,  
and soon you'll be there, in with the cans._

"Kitchens," Theodore says.

Harry speeds up.

It's far past curfew, and although Harry's been through deserted Hogwarts Halls before, it's… it's different now. It's his friend's life at stake. The kidnapper had used the term _mudblood_ and threatened Hermione's life – that is a threat that should not be taken lightly.

The Great Hall is too far away from the Library, and Theodore knows a short-cut. Athie agrees that it's the correct way, and so they zoom off towards the dungeons.

They stumble into Draco half-way through a dimly lit corridor. Harry wonders, for one brief moment, why he's not in bed – but when he sees the badge shining on his chest he nods stiffly to himself.

When Draco sees them, he halts. "What – " he begins.

Harry answers without slowing his pace. "Hermione's been kidnapped," he snaps coldly, hands balling into fists by his sides. "Follow me. That's an order."

Theodore raises an eyebrow at Harry, as if asking _how the fuck is that supposed to help_?

Draco, however, only inclines his head and mutters, "yes, my Lord," before falling into step behind Harry, flanking his right side. Theodore, still walking next to Harry on his left, gives him a wide-eyed look.

"Not now," Harry tells him hotly, and he nods mutely before continuing to walk.

After walking for another minute or so, Harry's skin begins to itch. He curses quietly and whips out the mirror once more. "Tom," he calls.

The answer comes faster than usual. Tom's been watching over the mirror, then. "Harry," he says, and his voice is even more worried than before.

"The bond is freaking out, sorry," Harry says, ignoring both Theodore and Draco. "Your cousin's joined us," he adds, to make sure that both Draco and Tom are aware that Theodore now knows.

Tom blinks. "Draco?" he says.

"Hi," Draco pipes up from behind Harry's shoulder.

"Watch over Harry for me, will you?" Tom asks, phrasing the concealed order like a meaningless comment.

"Sure thing, Thomas," Draco replies warily.

"You too, Nott," Tom adds, shooting a look to Harry's left. "Watch him. Merlin knows he can't do it himself."

Harry scoffs. "Hermione's at danger," he reminds him, "I'll watch over myself when I'm actually worried for my life."

Tom's gaze lingers on Harry for a moment before he looks away. "We don't know who she's been kidnapped by," he mutters.

Harry throws a look at Theodore. Is he worth the risk? Well… he can always be oblivious'd later, if he proves unable to keep a secret.

"Have you asked Bella and the others?" Harry asks.

"Yes," Tom replies, "none of them know of anything." Here his features turn stormy. "Of course, they might be lying… I could throw a few more curses their way, if you want."

Theodore's head snaps around and he stares at them with wide eyes – but, wisely, keeps his mouth shut. "No," Harry says, shaking his head, "that's not necessary. Do you think it might be a wannabe?"

"Perhaps," Tom muses. He frowns. "Draco," he snaps, "are any of the Slytherins out of the Dorms?"

"No," Draco says, "only Theodore, as far as I know."

Tom hums. "Keep in contact, Harry," he says, "I'll double check with…" He grimaces. " _The others_."

Harry nods stiffly. The mirror goes dark just in time, as well – Theodore points to the entrance to the kitchens with a dead expression.

 _Lonely souls gaze up and see,  
seeds of light, dancing for thee  
The future is made,  
the past created,  
up sixty-seven staircase steps._

"That's not a very good poem," Draco mutters as he reads the note. Theodore snorts. "I think it's the Astronomy Tower."

Harry shrugs. He doesn't give a damn about the cues. Athie can smell the bastard out, and he relies more on her than some words scribbled on a slip of parchment.

" _Harry_ ," Athie suddenly calls out, " _stop._ "

Harry comes to an abrupt stop, startling both Draco and Theodore into yelping. " _What_?" Harry hisses, " _what's wrong_?"

" _Human,_ " Athie calls out, slithering back to Harry. _"He smells_."

"Filch," Harry whispers harshly to Draco and Theodore. "Hide. _Now_."

Draco disappears around the corner immediately, while Theodore hesitates for a moment before diving behind the nearest statue. The corridor is bathed in shadows; he should be able to be unseen there.

After checking that both Draco and Theodore have found relatively good hiding places, Harry flings the Invisibility Cloak around himself and pushes up against the wall.

He's not willing to use magic on Filch. As an adult, he was far more power in the school than any students – and where a student would probably brush of waking up in the middle of a corridor with little to no memory of how they got there, Filch would take it to Dumbledore immediately.

It's not a chance Harry wants to take.

It doesn't last long before Filch's heavy footsteps round the corner. He's carrying a lantern and squinting into the darkness, but he's not muttering to himself, and Mrs. Norris is not with him, so it must be a regular check.

Harry holds his breath as he passes.

Filch disappears around the opposite corner from Draco, and a few moment later, Theodore comes back into the corridor. Draco follows a second later, and first then does Harry tug of his cloak. "Alright, let's go," he whispers harshly. " _Lead the way, Athie_."

Harry curses their lucky stars when they round a corner and come face-to-face with a Ravenclaw prefect. "Hey!" she cries. "What are you doing out here?"

Theodore opens his mouth to begin and explain, but Harry races him there and draws his wand. " _Stupefy_ ," he intones calmly.

The girl drops to the floor.

Theodore turns gaping to him.

" _Oblivio_ ," Harry casts.

He continues walking without breaking his pace once, leaving Theodore and Draco to scramble after him.

Right before they reach the Astronomy Tower, a silvery shape plummets from the roof. It howls, perhaps in glee and perhaps in shock, at seeing the three students in the middle of the hallway.

"Itty bitty students!" Peeves shriek, and yep, it's definitely glee. "Why aren't you in your beds, hmm? Perhaps I should call a teacher!"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Peeves," he says, and when Peeves' gaze lands on Harry he loses some of his fight.

"Potty," he says, somewhat pouting.

"If you cause troubles for us I'll be cutting off your supply of dungbombs," Harry warns. "And if you can tell us if someone's coming our way, I'll double it for three weeks."

Peeve's eyes light up. "Sure can do, Potty," he cries, cackling gleefully as he dives down into the floor – and then he's gone.

"You've been busy since the year began," Theodore mutters.

"You have no idea," Draco says, sounding terribly pained.

 _Porcelain shines brightly above,  
water comes rushing into this alcove,  
a place for relief and where tears stain the floor;  
a small room with more than one door._

Theodore tilts his head this way and that as he reads the note. "I don't get it," he finally admits. "Draco?"

Draco skims over the note before shaking his head. "No idea," he offers.

Harry takes the note and reads it.

Anger wells up in him. If this is the last clue, he's going to be utterly _pissed_. All this time, and Hermione's been _there -_

"It's the second-floor bathroom, you fools," he mutters. "Moaning Myrtle."

"How did you figure that out?" Theodore asks defensively.

"Porcelain, water, relief, small room with more than one door – all meaning bathroom. The tears staining the floor is a nod to Moaning Myrtle."

"Oh."

"Let's just pray it's _just_ the bathroom," Harry grumbles darkly as he quickens his pace.

Peeves help them avoid another prefect and Umbridge the Bitch Herself, but he's too late to warn them about Severus.

Well, Severus is maybe their _least_ problematic enemy this night.

When they stumble into each other Theodore winces, clearly believing the fight to be lost already. Draco looks hesitantly from Harry to Severus but doesn't say a single thing, thank Merlin. Severus, on the other hand, tenses when he sees Harry. Slowly, his gaze rakes over first him, then Draco, then Athie, and in the end, Theodore.

"Mr… Potter," he drawls, sounding more uncertain than Harry's ever heard him.

Harry interrupts before he can continue. He does _not have the fucking time, Goddamnit –_

"Hermione has been kidnapped," he says. "You _will_ assist us, Severus, or so help me – !"

There's a pause. Severus grits his teeth, a war raging in his eyes – but then he nods tightly. "Very well, my Lord," he whispers. It's obvious that it pains him to say it, but he doesn't have much of a choice, and Harry, frankly, doesn't care.

When Severus falls into step behind Harry, as well, flanking his left side, Theodore turns wide, shocked eyes to Harry.

"Potter," he says softly, "am I… should I be walking next to you?"

"Don't worry," Harry replies, without looking at him. "You're not a minion. There's no expectations to you or your name."

Theodore frowns, but ends up nodding stiffly anyway.

Hm. Wise of him.

The rest of the trek to the bathroom is mostly uneventful. Draco updates Severus on the notes and the cues, Theodore keeps shooting Harry wary glances, and Harry very determinedly glares at the air in front of him.

Finally they arrive at the bathroom. Athie slithers a bit around, appearing confused, before returning to Harry. " _Trail ends,_ " she reports, " _but abrupt. It continues, I am sure._ "

"Well, fuck it all, then," Harry deadpans. "Alright, everyone, listen up!"

Theodore was the only one not listening from before, and now he glances over at Harry again.

"We're going into the Chamber of Secrets," Harry informs them. "You will be risking your lives." He looks over at Theodore. "Theo, this is your chance at leaving. This is the point of no return."

Theodore frowns. "Draco – " he tries.

"Under an order," Harry cuts him off.

"Professor Sn – "

"Also under an order," Harry says. "Come on, Theodore, we don't have much time. Stay or no?"

"Stay, for Merlin's sake, Hermione's down there – "

"Good," Harry mutters. He pulls out the mirror again. "Tom." After less than two seconds the Mirror ripples alive. "Looks like we're going into the Chamber of Secrets, hon."

Tom frowns, likely at the nickname, but nods. "Good luck," he says. "And for Merlin's _sake,_ Harry, be _careful_."

"Will do," Harry promises.

And with that he turns around, faces the sink, and hisses;

" _Open._ "


	10. Chapter 10

"This place has seen better days," Tom mutters.

They're walking through the pipes leading to the Chamber of Secrets, shattered skulls crunching underneath their feet and water dripping from the roof in the distance – and Harry honestly has to agree. While the Chamber remains much the same _physically_ , the _air_ is different. In Harry's second year, it'd been sharp and hard, coiled tightly like a snake ready to spring. Quite the contrary to the heavy and sluggish atmosphere now.

"You've been in here, Malfoy?" Theodore asks, eyebrows tilting up in surprise.

Harry and Tom exchange a look. How much are they agreeing to say? How much should Theodore know? Is he _valuable_ enough to know?

"Don't ask, Theodore," Draco says, solving the problem quite nicely. "You don't want to know."

Theodore frowns, tilts his head and gives Harry a look that screams _I deserve an explanation_ , but thankfully lets it go. Well, for now, at least. "Do we know where we're going?" he asks instead. His voice echoes.

"Absolutely," Harry mutters, increasing his pace. God, in moments like these he misses his Healer Robes – the Hogwarts uniforms aren't _nearly_ dramatic enough for chases. Then again, he's not here for dramatics. He's here to save Hermione from certain doom. "I was here in second year. Killed a basilisk and all that." He hums, tilting his head to one side as he stares thoughtfully into the roof – all without breaking his pace. "Wonder if it's still there."

" – basilisk?" Theodore squeaks.

"Don't ask, Theodore," Draco repeats drily. "You don't want to know."

They step up to the round, snake-inlaid door leading to the actual Chamber of Secrets. " _Open_ ," Harry commands, handing the two-way mirror to Draco.

The snakes start to slither away from the door.

The seconds pass.

The tension rises.

Harry's quivering, knuckles gone white with how tightly he's gripping his wand. Whoever is on the other side of this door… they've hurt, kidnapped, scared, and threatened one of his best friends.

He grits his teeth and raises his chin. He's prepared. This person will not escape this unharmed.

The door swings open.

He takes three purposeful steps into the room, and then his gaze lands on Hermione.

She's tied to a pole, a pile of logs gathered below her feet. The rope digs into her flesh, leaving her skin red and angry. She's bruised and bloody, usually lively hair now hanging limply over her shoulders. Her chin is touching her chest, head lolling to one side. Her eyes are closed, but she's breathing, so that's something.

Harry's gaze turns back to the logs gathered below Hermione's feet.

The kidnapper means to burn her.

Terrified anger coils up within Harry's chest and claws its way up through his throat, leaving a bitter and salty taste on his tongue and threatening to spill out through his lips.

"Ah, Harry Potter," a silky voice drawls –

but Harry spins towards the source, wand ready and mind set, and he cries out a thundering " _Crucio!_ "

The girl falls to the floor with a scream.

There are several gasps behind him. Probably Hermione, Theodore, and maybe Draco or Tom. Not that it matters. They'll all have to know one way or another sometime soon.

Harry narrows his eyes and keeps the wand aimed at the girl. Tom had described to him the feeling of using _crucio_ as a pleasant and wild experience, addicting in the way some drugs are – but he doesn't feel it. It's not pleasing at all, just a numb carelessness. Maybe it's because he's not a Dark Wizard, maybe it's because he doesn't enjoy torturing people, maybe it's just a fluke. It doesn't matter. The girl writs on the floor, back arching and toes curling with her screams.

Harry ends the curse with a flick of his wand, feeling disgusted at both himself and the girl and not really knowing what to do with that.

The girl lies gasping, eyes closed and chest heaving with each breath she desperately draws. Her hair is plastered to her forehead with the sweat that broke out during the torture.

She's younger than Harry's body – no older than fourteen, for sure. Most likely a third year. The crest on her chest displays for the whole world which house she belongs to – the Eagles. It's a surprise, but not that big of surprise.

Harry lowers his wand. "So young," he mutters mournfully, shaking his head with a sigh. "What possessed you to do such things?" Without another word he casts a stupefy, conjures some ropes and ties her, before grabbing her wand and sticking it into his back pocket.

Harry turns around to see Hermione limping towards them, supported by Theodore on her left side and with blank eyes. Her arms are around Theodore's torso as she stumbles forward, but even though she's weakened, she still manages to glare through her tears. "You," she breathes, looking at Harry, her voice rasping through her throat and sounding more broken than anything Harry's ever heard, "have so much to explain."

Harry laughs; a breathless, relieved laugh. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, I do. Come on." He takes her from Theodore, mindful of her bare feet. They're covered in small cuts – and now that he looks for those cuts, he sees that her hands and upper arms are covered in them. There's blood trickling down her arms. The cuts are probably deeper than they look, and Harry could bet his Healer robes that they require immediate assistance. "Alright, sit down, please," he says calmly, easing Hermione down to the dirty floor. "I'll cast some diagnosing spells, a few cleaning spells, and then I'll heal those cuts and any other damage you might've gotten," he says, following protocol as well as he remembers, before once more drawing his wand.

Theodore, who's sat down next to Hermione, looks up at Harry with narrowed eyes. "You better not fuck up," he warns sternly.

"He won't," Draco mumbles. He's leaning against one of the big snake statues, probably waiting for an order and not wanting to mess anything up by acting without one. "Trust me."

While Harry begins to cast the diagnosing spells, Theodore worriedly pets Hermione's hair while muttering soothing words and gentle questions – "What did she do to you?" "Does it hurt?" "It'll get better soon."

Harry doesn't mention the fact that Hermione doesn't look to be in much pain, and only smirks up at Draco when he notices his surprised look. _Told you so_ , he mouths.

Draco huffs and looks away. Clearly, he's not ready to see the truth.

A few minutes later, and Harry's got Hermione all patched up. "Alright," he says, standing up and brushing down his robes. "I'm sure you two have a lot of questions." He nods to both Hermione and Theodore, the latter currently helping the former into standing. "I'll get around to answering them _eventually_ – but first," he says, prodding the unconscious Ravenclaw girl with his shoe, "Tom and I need to have a talk with this girl. This sort of behavior is _not acceptable_." The last words are punctured by a sharp look at both Draco and Severus, who both nod to show they understand.

"Agreed," Tom chimes in from over the mirror. "You're coming over, then?"

"I am," Harry nods. "I'll be portkeying right in from here. The wards don't reach this far down, as you surely are aware." When Tom nods, Harry turn his focus on the two minions in the room. "Draco, Severus - " Hermione gives a soft gasp at this blatant disrespect, but Theodore shushes her before she can complain. " – you'll get Theodore and Hermione back up to the surface. I expect all of you to get a good night's rest. _Especially_ you, Hermione." Here he lets his gaze rake over the group. "And not one word to Dumbledore. Got that, Severus?"

Severus' expression is very tight when he nods. He's still not gotten over the fact that Harry's his Lord, but eh. That doesn't really matter. His problem, not Harry's.

"Otherwise," Harry says, absentmindedly twirling his wand between his fingers as he raises his eyebrows at the group gathered before him, "I don't think I need to remind you not to tell anyone about this, hm?"

"No," Theodore says, shaking his head with a slight frown. "We'll keep quiet."

"But we expect answers!" Hermione buts in.

"Of course," Harry nods. "Tomorrow. Alright?"

She frowns, but nods slowly. "Tomorrow," she whispers. "Yeah. I can do tomorrow."

"Great," Harry says. He smiles softly. "I'll see you then."

And with that, he places his wrist – and with it the bracelet portkey from Tom – against the Ravenclaw's bare skin. " _Safety_ ," he intones.

Perhaps not as true as it's been previously – _Harry's_ going to safety.

The Ravenclaw girl sure as fuck isn't.


	11. Chapter 11

**ahem. hi. it's me. the author of this story. i wanted to inform y'all that this story is also being posted on AO3 - it's actually here on FFN more like an afterthought. I advice all of you to read it there, as the formatting is less wacky and there are some minor changes in grammar (i'm using grammarly over there), as well as AUTHOR'S NOTES. if you want to hear the 'behind the scenes' with the author, you should really go over there. if you want to leave a review, go over there. i don't reply to reviews on FFN (although I do read them). If you're just here for the read, then by all means, continue as you have! I'm just saying that i, personally, prefer AO3 and that's where i post most of my stories. it's on there under the same name (Damning the Damned) and by the same username (KatWrech). That being said, thank you all for the wonderful reviews (and the not so wonderful ones. thank you for taking your time to comment that present tense isn't your thing. what do you expect me to do about it?), and please enjoy this new chapter! :D**

"We're sure she's a Death Eater wannabe?" Tom asks. He's carrying the Ravenclaw girl towards the Meeting Hall, where they're planning on waking her up and interrogating her.

"Yes," Harry replies. He has his hands folded behind his back, comfortable in his pair of very _clean_ Healer robes and with a disguise charm cast on him. "She used the term _mudblood_ , Tom."

Tom nods. They arrive to the Meeting Hall moments later, and he sits her down on the floor, removes her ropes, trots over to his "throne", and first when Harry sits down next to him does he _rennervate_ her.

She sits up with a gasp, lies her eyes on Tom (now Voldemort) and gasps again – louder this time. "My Lord," she breathes, stumbling to fall to her knees. "I – I am honored – "

"Quit the nonsense, girl," Tom spits. "It has come to my attention that you have kidnapped and harmed one Hermione Granger."

"Yes," the girl gasps, nodding enthusiastically, "the mudblood girl, yes – "

"Such behavior is _not_ acceptable," Tom cuts her off, and her expression of awed joy falls into one of confusion. "What did you think this would get you?"

The girl, now trembling, ducks her head and looks at the floor. "I – I wanted pass with the Death Eaters – " she stutters.

"You're too young," Harry sighs. "You have to be at least seventeen to take the Dark Mark."

"Besides," Tom adds, "killing Granger would just have landed you in prison. Do you think you're of any help for me there?"

"N – no, my Lord," the girl whispers.

"Listen," Harry says. "You are not to harm any students, muggleborns or no, under the Dark Lord's name. It will do no one any good." The girl, apparently not caring that she has no idea who Harry is, gives a trembling good.

"Of course," Tom says, "if you're still interested in some years, you're welcome as one of our followers."

 ** _Our_** _followers_ , Harry's mind repeats. As morbid as it is, his heart warms, and he throws Tom a soft, warm smile.

"You'll have to swear an oath," Tom continues, a slight color having risen in his cheeks, "to not tell anyone anything about this. Do that, and you will not be punished."

The girl nods furiously. "I will take the oath, my Lord – anything for you, my Lord!"

Long story short, she takes the oath.

Harry takes her back to the school, then portkeys right back to the Manor.

"I'm staying here tonight," he says, plopping himself into the couch beside Tom's desk. "No questions.

"Then we're going to bed right now," Tom says. He looks stern, or is supposed to look stern, but in the gentle waves of moonlight coming through the windows he looks softer than ever before. "You need the sleep."

"Fine by me," Harry shrugs.

Tom smiles, and it's probably supposed to look like a smirk or a grin, but the douse of moonlight makes _everything_ soft, even things that are soft from before, and with a small headshake Tom takes Harry's hand and leads him back to his bedroom.

Athie curls up with Nagini on a heated rock by the window. Harry tucks himself in against Tom's chest, relief trickling slowly through his veins at everything being okay, the content dulling his thoughts being fully his own.

Tom's fingers thread through his hair in slow, rhythmic movements, and Harry sighs softly and tilts his head into the touch. "Tom?" he says quietly. Tom hums, the sound rumbling through his chest and the air and everything Harry is. "If… if we find out how to break the bond," Harry whispers, "do you want to do it?"

Tom goes silent for a very long time. Then he sighs, pulls Harry closer to him and nuzzles the top of his head. "I don't know, Harry," he replies softly. "I don't know."

And that's probably all Harry's going to get, so he lifts his head, gives Tom a soft kiss, and goes to sleep with a smile.

The next morning, he wakes first.

Sunlight falls through the window and dances across the covers, thin in a way sunlight rarely is in Hogwarts. Harry rubs his head against Tom's chest and yawns. Their legs have tangled while they slept, as has their arms, and Harry encounters some troubles when he attempts to _un_ tangle them without waking Tom.

He doesn't succeed in that particular mission, and so Tom wakes with a quiet mutter.

"Good morning," Harry says softly, smiling up at him through his bangs. "Help me out here, will you?"

Tom helps untangle their legs, and then he lies back down against the pillows. "'Morning," he murmurs. "Slept well?"

"Huh, I didn't know you cared," Harry grins as he regretfully pulls on his Hogwarts Robes. They're clean now, thanks to the dutiful House Elves.

Tom cracks an eye open and glares at Harry. "I'd think it was pretty obvious I cared by now," he says drily, "considering all we've been through."

Harry laughs. "Yeah, I know," he says. He braces himself on the bed and bends down, pressing his lips to Tom's in a soft kiss. "It was a joke, love."

He pulls back a few inches – just enough to be able to meet Tom's gaze.

Time seems to stop.

Harry's hair, grown long enough to brush past his ears, hangs like a curtain between the two of them and the world. Yet the sunlight flitters in between the strands of hair, spilling over Tom's high cheekbones and illuminating what illuminates Harry.

Harry's breath catches in his throat – _beautiful_ , he thinks, _beautiful, and all mine_ –

there's something soft in Tom's dark eyes, something soft and warm, what's usually hard like stone now more like molten iron. And something within Harry melts, molds, and is shaped into a new yet familiar form.

"I love you," Tom whispers, breaking the silence between them, his eyes wide in disbelief and affection and hope. "Merlin."

Harry giggles, leans down, and captures Tom's lips in another gentle kiss. "I know that, as well," he replies quietly. "I love you, too, you dork."

Tom rolls his eyes, and the moment shatters like glass. "Go to _school_ , you idiot."

Harry laughs again. "I'll see you later, then," he says, pulling completely away this time.

"Yes," Tom says. He's smiling when Harry puts on the bracelet. "You will."

" _Safety_ ," Harry commands.

Moments later he's standing outside of the Forbidden Forest. He'd returned to Malfoy Manor from this point last night, and now he's grateful. If he'd had to walk back through the Chamber now, that would've ruined his good morning.

He walks up to the school with a skip in his step.

Of course, his good morning is about to be ruined anyway, as Hermione sees him the moment he steps into the Great Hall to get his breakfast. She grabs his arm, nods to Theodore, and begins to drag him out. "Wait," Harry says calmly, putting a hand on her arm. "I want Neville to be there."

He's supposed to work like a barrier between Hermione and Harry. He's generally more at ease than Hermione when it comes to big things like these, and hopefully he'll manage to calm her down if she riles herself up.

In this, Theodore is an unknown element – but Harry isn't worried, not really.

Upon hearing his name in that sentence, Neville looks up from the table with his eyebrows raised in surprise. He gets up and follows them out of the Hall without asking questions.

They end up in an abandoned classroom, the four of them, and Hermione sits herself down at one of the desks with a stormy expression. It's obvious that she wants an explanation, and _fast_.

Raising his eyebrows at her Harry casts first a powerful locking charm on the door, quickly followed by a few privacy wards Tom had taught him in the beginning of the summer. God, that feels like it's ages ago…

"Right," Harry says, sitting down opposite of his three friends. Does Theodore count as a friend? Ugh, God if he knows. He sighs. "I suppose I'll have to start from the beginning." The three of them shuffle around a bit, finding a more comfortable position to sit and listen in. "It's October 31st, 1981," he begins. "Lord Voldemort shoots of a curse at baby Harry Potter. Me, in case you didn't know." He lets the chuckles die down before he continues. "The curse doesn't kill me. _Instead_ it creates a soul-bond so powerful that one of the greatest wizards of all time still doesn't know how to break it."

And with that he has their attention. Hermione's staring with wide eyes, Theodore is frowning in concentration, Neville is leaning forwards and has paled a bit. "A soul-bond?" he breathes. "But those are – "

"Very rare, yes," Harry nods. "Anyway – I had no idea this soul-bond existed until the _Triwizard Tournament_." Here he breaks himself off with a small, hurting sound. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I have no excuses, just regret."

Theodore waves his hand dismissively to signal that he should keep telling the story – so he does.

"When I – when I got face-to-face with Voldemort, the bond reacted in such a way that I had no control over myself. I helped him return to his body, and I hated myself for weeks afterward." He sighs and leans forward on the desk, resting his elbows on his knees. "Two days after school ended, the bond freaked out and caused me to have a black-out. Tom had a blackout as well – " two gasps, one from Theodore and one from Hermione. Both of them recognize Tom's name. " – and so I was brought to Malfoy Manor, where he has his base. He told me that he'd made Horcruxes during the first war, that they had caused him to go insane, and that he now was whole again. I didn't believe him at first," Harry hurries to add when they all pull disbelieving looks, "but after three weeks or so… he found a book in the library. A book on past lives. He performed a spell on first himself and then me to see if we have lived before. He hasn't." Here Harry takes a dramatic pause, meeting first Hermione's gaze, then Theodore's, then Neville's. "I have," he says quietly. Two sharp intakes of breath, these from Neville and Hermione. "I regained the memories of my life as Harrison, Healer at Hogwarts infirmary during the Founders' Era. My mental age was now nearing 80, and my personality had changed. I saw Tom's side of things. Even if I hadn't already decided to follow him, I would have changed my mind then."

"But – " Hermione breaks in, "but Voldemort wants to – "

"Hush," Theodore says, "ask questions later, the story isn't done yet."

Hermione shuts up.

"I became Voldemort's right hand," Harry continues, as if he hadn't just been interrupted, "his partner in crime. In many ways I became his equal, although that was not what either of us wanted. We came up with the plan that he'd pose as Draco's squib cousin, so that I'd have a squib friend. It will help push our plans forward – and I'll come back to that later."

"So that – that was all a lie?" Neville pipes up, voice soft and fragile. "You didn't make friends with Draco last year?"

"No," Harry says, shaking his head. "I didn't. He was ordered to go along with the story."

Hermione, who's been frowning for a while, suddenly speaks up. "But – you told me Thomas was your boyfriend," she says uncertainly, "and – and you came back with hickeys that one time." Her eyes widen as she gasps. " _Harry_!"

Harry scratches the back of his head and looks away. "I, er… I might have… fallen a tiny bit in love."

"With the Dark Lord," Theodore deadpans.

Harry shrugs helplessly.

"But he – does he even have _emotions_?" Neville asks, flabbergasted.

"Yes," Harry sighs. " _All of them_ ," he adds, when Hermione opens her mouth to speak again. "He's admitted to loving me. Most recent was this morning, actually." _There's no reason to tell them he's never said it_ before _this morning…_

"Alright," Theodore says diplomatically, "so you're in love with the Dark Lord. You've lived before. What about your _plans_? Why was Malf – Thoma – _he_ so angry when Hermione was kidnapped?"

"Oh God," Hermione says, "I've talked to Voldemort."

Ignoring her for the moment, Harry turns to Theodore and begins to answer his question. "He's afraid of muggles," he says. "All he wants is the Ministry to see that they pose a _gigantic_ threat to Wizards, Witches, and all magical creatures. He doesn't want to kill them, and believes that both muggleborns, half-bloods and squibs are all part of the Wizarding community." Here he sighs. He's going to need a Pepper-Up potion after this. "He wants to separate our two worlds, so that muggles will never be able to discover us. He doesn't care _how_ it's done, as long as it's _done properly_."

There's silence for a few moments.

"And you agree," Neville says.

It's not a question.

"Yes," Harry nods. "I do."

"But Harry!" Hermione cries. "He – he killed your parents!"

Harry shakes his head. " _Voldemort_ , the murderous mad-man, killed my parents. Tom didn't."

"But they're _the same person_ ," Hermione stresses, "Harry, you – "

"Hermione," Neville buts in, "they really aren't. Horcruxes… magic… it does things to you." He looks tired in that moment, expression haunted, and Harry thinks for one brief moment that it's _he_ who should be going through this. "How sure are you that he's being sincere with you?" he asks, to Harry. "How much of that is because you love him?"

Harry smiles. "I've known since the moment I regained my memories that he's sincere," he says. "And I wasn't in love with him then."

Neville nods solemnly. "I don't know about you," he says to Hermione and Theodore, "but I trust the judgement of an 80-year-old who knows him more rather than a group of students who don't." He turns back to Harry. "If it matters any at all, I'm on your side, Harry."

Harry's smile turns wobbly as relief crushes over him. "Thank you, Neville," he whispers. "It means a lot."

Hermione still doesn't look happy. "But how do you _know_?" she asks.

"How do I know _you_ are sane?" Harry shoots back. "Hermione, I understand that you worry. I do. But _please_ trust me on this. I'm _not_ asking you to side with us. I'm not asking anything at all, really. I just really, really want you to accept this. Because this is me. This is who I am."

With those final words, Harry slides down from the desk and exits the room. He shuts the door softly behind him, and feels like he shuts of a friendship.

Two weeks pass. Hermione doesn't speak much to Harry, Neville keeps throwing him worried glances, and Theodore doesn't act different at all. Pretty much all that Harry expected to happen. He isn't that hurt. Not really. He's almost 80 years old, damn it – he's seen time move past him like water in a river. One person more or less doesn't matter.

That's what he tells himself, anyway – but when Hermione seeks him out after the two weeks pass, his heart thunders in worry.

"Harry?" she says, standing above him in the library. She's sad, her voice like thin paper and shoulders hunched. "I… I wanted to talk to you, for… for a moment…"

"Sure," Harry says, closing his book and turning to Draco, who'd been lecturing him on the correct uses of moonshade. "Leave us, please," he asks, and Draco scrambles to stand up.

"Yes, my Lord," he mutters, bowing at the waist before nearly running out the doors.

Harry watches his retrieving back and hums. "Sometimes that boy takes his role a bit too seriously," he mutters.

"U – uhm," Hermione stutters. "That's… what I wanted to talk about, actually…"

Harry pushes one of the chairs out from the table. "Well, sit down, then," he says. "What's on your mind?"

Hermione sits down in the chair, but she doesn't speak up before a few moments have passed. "I… uhm… I've thought a lot about what you told me, and… if… if you're right about… about Voldemort and all that… then…" She takes a deep breath, looks up from her lap, and meets Harry's gaze. "I'm more on your side than Dumbledore's. That's what I wanted to say."

Harry's smile crumbles. "Oh, Hermione," he whispers. Tears well up in his eyes. "I can't – "

"Do you not want me to?" Hermione asks in surprise.

"N – no, I do!" Harry exclaims. The tears trickle down his cheeks, now. "I didn't expect you to – " He wipes away the tears and smiles again, this a smile of happiness rather than a smile of patience. "I'm just very happy."

Hermione smiles as well. "Good," she says. "So, can you tell me more about your plans?"

And Harry does.


	12. Chapter 12

**one more chapter and we're done.**

The cold, early-winter air has settled in over Hogsmeade, pulled over the village like a worn blanket – and for once, Harry is grateful for taking a step into the Three Broomsticks, if only to escape the chilly wind. "Minister," he greets cheerfully when he closes the door to the private room behind him. "A pleasure to see you, as always."

Fudge laughs, a booming, genuine laugh, and gestures for Harry to sit down at the table. "The feeling is mutual, Harry," he says, mirth sparkling in his eyes. "How have you been since our last meeting?"

Harry, recognizing an opportunity when he sees one, jumps into action and sets his and Tom's plans into motion. "Oh, I've been wonderful, sir," he says, pulling away a chair from the table and sitting down with more grace than is natural for him. "I told my friends about Thomas and they were all very accepting."

"Thomas?" Fudge repeats, eyebrows jumping in polite curiosity. "Who is that?"

"Oh!" says Harry, widening his eyes in feigned surprise. "I haven't told you about him? Excuse me, then, we can talk about something else – "

"Oh, no," Fudge interrupts, wanting to stay on Harry's good side. "Please, do tell me who Thomas is."

 _Gotcha._ "Thomas is a squib," Harry begins boldly. Fudge's eyebrows skyrocket into his hairline. "He's Draco Malfoy's cousin." He takes a deep breath and raises his chin: a movement made by someone steeling themselves. Nothing in this conversation is coincidental. "It also happens that he is my boyfriend."

Fudge blinks. "Your boyfriend?" he repeats. "Your boyfriend is a Malfoy? A Malfoy _squib_?"

Harry sighs and looks down at the table with an angry frown, letting his bangs fall into his eyes. "See, this is why I'm so worried," he says hotly. "The Wizarding world is so biased and prejudiced towards squibs and muggleborns alike. They can't make a good life here," he complains, tearing his gaze away from the tabletop to stare at Fudge with now wide, innocent eyes. "But they can't make a good life in the muggle world either!"

Fudge sits back, recognizing that the subject of the conversation has changed, and inclines his head. "Do continue," he says, gesturing with one hand.

"I don't know how much you know about muggles, sir," Harry begins, "but they fear everything they don't understand. And they're far more dangerous than we wizards believe."

Fudge raises an eyebrow. "How so?" he asks lightly.

"What they don't have in magic, they have in science," Harry elaborates. "You've surely heard of guns?" Fudge nods. "Well, it's far worse than that. Airplanes, bombs, wars – they're so _brutal_ ," he sighs. "You should've seen my muggle family. They didn't like the fact that I came from a magical family. Thought they ought to 'beat the freakishness out of me'."

Fudge sits back, eyes gone wide. "Surely they didn't – "

"They never hit me," Harry assures him, "but I was _never_ treated like a person."

"Merlin," Fudge breathes. "That's - "

"Unfortunately, my family aren't the only muggles that act that way," Harry says, thinking of his poor Tom's childhood in the forties. "But individual muggles don't pose much of a threat," he says, again changing the subject. "Let's talk about _muggle wars_."

Fudge nods. "The World Wars, yes?" he asks.

"Yes," Harry nods. "But also all the other wars. Civil wars. Syrian wars. Wars in general. They aren't rare. Muggles are terrifyingly brutal – thousands of humans die every day because of war."

"During the Wizarding Wars there was much of the same," Fudge says, frowning in confusion, "surely – "

"Wrong," Harry interrupts hotly. "That was _one_ war and _one_ horrible person. In the muggle world? Thousands of horrible people. _Dozens_ of wars at the same time. You don't get it, Minister. During the Wizarding Wars there were followers who went after individual people. In the muggle wars there are governments that go after other governments, murdering civilians without a single care in the world. They bomb and destroy and tear down. It's terribly painful, sir. A terrible way to die… not like the Killing Curse."

Harry looks down at the table again, his shoulders slumping as he makes his next breath shake. "My parents were lucky," he says quietly, sounding more like the broken child he was before summer began than he's ever done before, "to be killed with the Killing Curse. They were lucky they weren't muggles."

Fudge stays quiet, so Harry continues.

"I worry about the Wizarding world, sir," he says, still in the quiet, cracked voice. "They don't understand the threat the muggles pose. If they find out we exist… they fear what's different. The wars they fight? It's over religion. It's over skin color. It's over who you love." Dramatic pause. "Think about what they could do to us if they knew we existed."

Harry glances up from the table, doing his best to look worried and sad and young.

There are tears glistening in Fudge's eyes. "Of course, Harry," he says softly. "But what can we do?"

Harry clenches his hands. "I don't know," he admits. "I don't know much about magic, not really. But – but some sort of shield separating the magical world from the muggle one must be possible? Separating our worlds completely?"

Fudge nods slowly. He looks thoughtful, and Harry knows that he's hit home.

 _Bingo_ , he thinks. _Victory is ours._

Harry comes back from Hogsmeade around four in the evening. He's about to whisk over to Tom to tell him how the meeting went, but thinks better of it and pops into the Gryffindor common room first. After everything she's done for him, he can give her a vote of confidence in return.

"Hermione?" he says, nearing the couch in front of the fireplace cautiously.

Hermione doesn't look up from her book. "Yes, Harry?"

"I'm going over to Tom to tell him about my meeting with the Minister," he says slowly. "Just… wanted to tell you. So you wouldn't start searching for me."

Hermione still doesn't look up from her book. "Okay, Harry."

Harry sees her smile and gives a relieved sigh before hurrying out to Hagrid's hut.

"Honey, I'm home!" Harry calls loudly as he appears in Tom's office.

"Hm," Tom says. He doesn't look up from his papers.

Harry chuckles, walks over, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. "Good to see you, too," he chirps. "How's the Death Eaters?"

Now Tom _does_ look up from his papers, a disgusted grimace on his face. "When did you start caring?" he scowls.

Harry grins and skips over to the couch. "I don't," he assures his cheerily, "I'm just being polite."

"To the _Death Eaters_?" Tom asks incredulously. He stands up from his desk and follows Harry to the couch.

"To _you_ ," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "Why would I be polite to _them_?"

Tom sighs, sits down on the couch, and pulls Harry to his chest. "Nevermind," he mutters. "How did the meeting go?"

"Great!" Harry says. "I finally found an opening. Gave it all I dared. He's pretty open to the idea, I think – especially now that I've voiced my concerns."

Tom hums thoughtfully. "Lucius tells me he's preparing to try and have some law passed," he informs him. "By his reports I think it's going well."

"Wonderful," Harry grins. "We're making great progress, then!"

"Yes… but not enough," Tom grumbles. "But what else can we do?"

Harry tilts his head. What other ways _can_ they reach out to the public to push the Ministry towards taking action? Hm…

When the answer hits him it hits him _hard_ , and he feels like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. "The _Daily Prophet_!" he cries, sitting up so abruptly that Tom startles and nearly falls out of the couch. "Rita Skeeter would be _overjoyed_ to have an interview with me!"

Tom grumbles something darkly underneath his breath as he sits himself back in a comfortable position. "Yes," he agrees after some time, "she would. But she would also be blowing your story out of proportion."

"I'm the last Potter," Harry deadpans, "I have cash, Tom. Lots of it."

"Bribery?" Tom mutters, raising and eyebrow and tapping his chin. "Hm. I like it."

"Wonderful!" Harry repeats from earlier. He hops out of the couch. Tom, not ready for the sudden loss of support, loses his balance and tips over. "I'll send her an owl right now!"

He doesn't see it, but when he hurries over to Tom's desk to pen Skeeter a letter, Tom stares at his retreating back. Upon seeing his childish joy his expression softens from a disgruntled scowl to a surprised look and then further to a fond, content smile.

Half a week later, Hermione taps Harry's shoulder during breakfast. "Harry," she says, "the interview is here."

"Oh!" Harry exclaims, happily accepting the offered Daily Prophet. "Damn, she works fast."

"Read it," Hermione nags. "It's surprisingly good."

Harry snorts, opens the newspaper, and begins to read.

It's impressive. Skeeter's done a good job – perhaps because he paid her _just_ a bit more than he needed to get desired results, but oh, well. The end result is marvelous, so he's not going to complain.

She's put together a moving tale about a horrible childhood, neglecting muggles, a still-healing child and a terrifying danger. She has _successfully_ painted muggles, not as monsters, but as humans ready to fight the unknown. Towards the end of the article she lists wizards, witches, and squibs hurt by muggles. There's two lists, one with muggles who's hurt wizards without knowing they're magical, and one with muggles who knew.

The list with muggles who knew is deliberately longer than the one with those who didn't.

At the end of the article, Skeeter poses a very relevant question – _we have always perceived muggles as relatively harmless creatures. It's obvious now that we were wrong! Why hasn't the Ministry done something? Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, has voiced a great trust in Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. Will he live up to this trust? Will the Minister protect us?_

Harry looks up at Hermione and is met by a pleased grin. "I didn't know that woman could write good articles," she says, still with that unusual grin plastered on her face.

Harry laughs nervously. "I, er. Might have bribed her. A little bit." He expects a shocked look, so he's understandably surprised when Hermione only giggles and shakes her head.

"I suppose that works, as well," she says, the grin melting into a smile. "Good job, Harry."

Well, that's certainly a pleasant surprise. Harry smiles back, but after a few moments his curiosity gets the better of him and he has to ask. "Not that I'm complaining," he says, "but your co-operation is unexpected. Pleasant, of course, but still… why are you going so willingly into this?"

Hermione turns fully towards him and sighs. "Well… Tom, the sane Dark Lord, has never expressed a hate for muggles. Just a fear. And I can support that – muggles scare me, as well. If all he's offering to do is protect us – and in that way, protect _them_ – I don't see any problems. Not really." She smiles. "And it's… it feels good to have a goal to be working towards. Headmaster Dumbledore, great as he is, doesn't offer that."

Harry smiles back, reaches across the feet separating them, and puts his hand on her shoulder. "Hermione," he says, his voice soft and surprised, "I'm proud."

Hermione looks like Harry's just proclaimed that she got full marks in all her OWL's. "Thank you," she whispers. "So am I. Proud of Tom. Proud of you." She takes a deep breath and admits something she's never admitted before.

"…proud of _myself_."

In the aftereffect of Skeeter's article, the Ministry is in an uproar. The Minister is very clearly on Harry's side. People are yelling at each other in the hallways. The air is tense as they try to figure out a way to solve this.

And solve it they do. After a week of fighting, researching, checking and double-checking and _triple-checking_ , even the muggle-lovers have to agree – the muggles are far more dangerous than they originally thought. Cornelius Fudge holds a speech about protecting the innocent. He talks about the muggles like they are humans – like they are _dangerous_ , like any sort of human is. He talks about love, and fear, and logic. He talks about hope. He talks about safety and danger and uncertainty, and at the end of his speech, the general population of the Wizarding World has to agree with him.

Muggles are dangerous.

And it's not perfect, it _isn't_. It's not the best scenario, but when the Minister proclaims that incredibly powerful wards and charms and laws will be put in place to protect the Wizarding World, the deep-seated fear Tom has felt since the summer 1940 – it finally _fades._ A part of the boy, the shattered, broken boy… _heals_.

He cries when he hears the news that things are going to be okay, and Harry holds him and mutters soothing words until he calms – and he _does_ calm, feels like he'll _always_ calm, _always_ when he's with Harry –

…so, this is it. Their plans have been a success. Their world and their happiness is safe, secluded from the people that might very well be their worst enemies.

 _But what now?_ I hear you ask.

Now?

Now they live.


	13. Epilogue - what is happiness?

"I still can't believe you're celebrating Yule with the Malfoys," Ron grumbles. Hermione rolls her eyes and reaches over to swat his arm. It's more for show than anything. Ron doesn't even wince.

"You got a problem with us, Ron?" Draco asks, raising his eyebrows with an amused grin.

"No," says Ron, still in the complaining tones from earlier, "I'm just mad I couldn't join."

The asserted students laugh.

They're gathered at the Hogsmeade train station, waiting for the Hogwarts express to arrive to take some of them back to Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

Hannah and Susan, both packed up with thick coats and yellow scarves, are holding hands – they're both going to Susan's aunt's house to celebrate Yule, and if one is to judge by the gleam in their eyes, they're both very excited.

Hermione, Theodore, and Luna are all staying at the castle. Everyone pretends not to notice the long glances between Hermione and Theodore in respect for their not-yet-confessed feelings. Harry covers a wince. Poor Luna, stuck third-wheeling the two of them. …Then again, she'll most likely spend the weeks searching for some of her creatures, so maybe it won't be so bad.

Neville, standing over by Ron opposite of Harry, is going home to his grandmother, and has left several gifts for the three staying at Hogwarts, with promises of presents over owls to the remaining five.

Harry looks over the group and smiles, a soft warmth blooming from behind his heart and spreading throughout his body. These people are his friends – and they have, in some ways, become his family.

And now they're safe.

The train ride is spent in a comfortable and warm silence, the air bursting with untold stories and withheld hearts all loving each other. Harry spends it all staring out through the window and smiling softly, feeling caught up in such a short moment while taking in the beauty of the world just as it moves past. It hits him that they all live as long as candleflames, in truth, compared to the mountains and the rivers.

And he thinks – _this,_ – to the sounds of quiet murmurs of love behind him, – _this is hope_.

When they step out to platform Nine and Three Quarters, they share quick hugs, fleeting moments of closeness in a time where it's not truly needed, before Harry and Draco Floo over to Malfoy Manor. There they go separate ways: Draco gives Harry a small smile and disappears out of the room to reunite with his parents, while Harry exits the room and makes for Tom's office.

Tom is there, waiting for him, and when Harry sees him the urge becomes to big and he smiles a smile that could save the world alone.

They spend the days before Christmas in one of the calmest atmospheres Harry's ever encountered. They read in the library, often from the same book, and they're pressed shoulder to shoulder in a beautiful silence. They cuddle – on couches, in bed, in quiet corners of their minds. They walk through the gardens in an unexpected and sappy move from Tom, and their fingers are intertwined as they stroll and talk and grow like the roots underneath their feet.

 _This,_ Harry thinks, to the feeling of a heart beating against his palm, _this is love._

It's Boxing Day. Harry wakes up first, as seems to have become the norm, and brings Tom to consciousness by sitting on him until he begins to complain.

"Act your age," he mutters, swatting Harry's bare shoulder with his bare hand, and sparks fly at the contact.

"I am!" Harry replies cheerfully.

Tom groans into his pillow. "Why did I even get married to you?" he sighs, and when Harry laughs the noise echoes throughout the room.

"We aren't even married yet!" he thrills, and Tom groans again.

Later they sit in front of the fireplace, flames roaring within the hearth, and they open and exchange gifts. Tom has received gifts from all of Harry's friends, much to Harry's joy and Tom's disgruntlement, while Harry has received many gifts from several Death Eaters – including Bellatrix.

They sit and share and enjoy, and Harry, though he's already warm enough, cuddles into Tom's side and feels whole.

The last night before Harry is to return to Hogwarts, they lie in bed underneath rays of molten silver bleeding from a crescent moon. They rise and fall like waves on a stormy midnight sea, somehow perfectly in synch and yet different enough to be terrifyingly enthralling. And Harry looks down at Tom, disheveled and coming undone underneath his fingertips, skin pale in the glow of the ghostly moon, and sees a world, sees _the_ world, sees _his_ world, unmapped by any but him. He trails paths between his freckles, brushed dark against soft shoulders and chest, and feels this broken child who will never know what it is like to heal fall apart beneath him.

 _And this_ , Harry thinks, to the sounds of two hearts beating like one in the cold winter night, _this is happiness_.

 **the end**


End file.
